-/ 


OP  CALIF.  UBR1BY,  LOS  1HGEU6S 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S 


CVTHBERTS 


A  NOVEL 


ROBERT  E.  KNOWLES 


New  York    Chicago    Toronto 

FLEMING  H.  RESELL  COMPANY 

London    and    Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


First  Edition,  September,  1905. 
Second  Edition,  October,  1905. 
Third  Edition,  October  15,  i9°5- 
Fourth  Edition,  November  1905. 
Fifth  Edition,  December  1905- 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto:  27  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


The  Canadian  Pilgrim 
Fathers 


f%  Ji  e~%  r-v  ,«•••>  f~\  fw> 

2130688 


CONTENTS 

I  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE      ....         9 

II  A  MAN  WITH  A  SECRET        .         .         .         .       20 

III  OUR  MUTUAL  TRIAL 26 

IV  OUR  MUTUAL  VERDICT        ....       34 

V  MY  KIRK  SESSION         .....       42 

VI  THE  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND    ....        50 

VII  "  THE  CHILD  OF  THE  REGIMENT  "          .         .       58 

VIII  "  A  NEW  FOOT  ON  THE  FLOOR  "  .         .         .64 

IX  "  ANGELS  UNAWARES  "          .         .         .         •       73 

X  MY  Pious  PROFLIGATE          ....       78 

XI  PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND     .          .          .          .88 

XII  «  BY  THAT  SAME  TOKEN  "  .         .         .         .98 

XIII  WITH  THE  WORKMEN 1 06 

XIV  WITH  THE  EMPLOYERS          .         .         .         .119 

XV  A  BOLD  PROPOSAL       .         .         .         .         .128 

XVI  GEORDIE'S  OOT-TURN          .         .         .         .141 

XVII  "  Noo,  THE  IN-TURN  "        .         .         .         .154 

XVIII  How  ELSIE  WON  THE  GATE         .         .         .159 

XIX  A  MAIDEN'S  LOVE 175 

XX  A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION      .         .         .         .187 

XXI  THE  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG         .         .      199 

XXII  "  THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  "        .         .         .215 

XXIII  A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS 229 

XXIV  THE  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH    .         .         .         .241 

7 


8 


CONTENTS 


XXV  ST.  CUTHBERT'S  SECOND  CALL    . 

XXVI  LOVE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE  .         . 

XXVII  THE  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX 

XXVIII  THE  HEATHERY  HILLS 

XXIX  "  AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED  " 

XXX  LOVE'S  VICTORY  OVER  SIN 

XXXI  LOVE'S  TRIUMPH  OVER  ALT 


258 

276 
290 
300 

3" 

323 
33° 


.   CUTHBERT'S 


The   TURN  of  The   TIDE 

"  "W"  F  you  don't  get  the  call  you  needn't  come  back 
here,"  said  my  wife  to  me  as  I  stood  upon  the 

•^  door-sill,  bag  in  hand,  and  my  hard-bought 
ticket  in  my  pocket. 

"  Well,  dear  one,  I  would  be  sure  of  it  if  they 
could  only  see  the  perquisite  that  goes  along  with 
me." 

"  You  must  be  more  serious,  Tom,  if  you  expect 
great  calls ;  but  come  inside  a  minute  till  I  say  good- 
bye. When  you  brought  me  first  to  Canada  we  had 
half  a  dozen  good-byes  to  every  one  farewell.  Good- 
bye again,  and  if  they  don't  call  you  they  will  deserve 
what  they  lose." 

Thus  spoke  my  wife,  and  thus  was  I  despatched  on 
the  mission  that  was  big  with  moment. 

It  was  a  wondrous  hour  that  brought  to  us  the 
invitation  which  I  was  now  proceeding  to  accept* 
Not  that  we  were  unhappy  because  our  salary  was 
small ;  we  had  not  lived  by  bread  alone,  and  our  souls 

9 


io  ST.   CUrHBERTS 

were  well  content.  But  my  wife  had  delirious  visions, 
which  she  affirmed  were  sane  and  reasonable,  of  her 
husband's  coming  yet  into  his  own,  and  indulged 
every  now  and  then  in  savage  and  delicious  little 
declarations  of  the  great  misfit,  which  misfit  was  in 
my  being  the  minister  of  a  little  church  which  af- 
forded a  little  salary  and  provoked  a  little  fame. 

Her  other  days  had  been  spent  in  luxury  and  amid 
the  refinement  and  the  pleasures  which  money  only 
can  provide.  And  when,  our  wedding  day  drawing 
near  apace,  I  sent  her  my  budget  letter,  bitterly 
revealing  impecunious  facts  at  which  I  had  before 
but  darkly  hinted,  and  warning  her  of  all  the  sacri- 
fice which  lay  beyond,  she  replied  with  vehement  re- 
pudiation of  any  fears,  and  in  that  hour  made  me 
rich. 

"  Cheese  and  kisses,"  wrote  she,  "  are  considered 
good  fare  in  my  South  land  for  all  who  have  other 
resources  in  their  hearts."  And  I  mentally  averred 
that  half  of  that  would  be  enough  for  me. 

And  so  we  went  ahead — oh,  progressive  step ! 
And  we  were  never  poor  again. 

But  there  came  a  more  heroic  hour.  It  was  hard, 
so  hard  to  do,  but  the  pressure  rendered  concealment 
quite  impossible,  for  the  note  I  had  endorsed  was 
handed  in  for  suit.  So  I  told  her  one  twilight  hour 
that  our  already  limited  income  must  be  shared  with 


The   TURN  of  The    TIDE  n 

an  unromantic  creditor.  There  was  a  little  tightening 
of  the  lips,  then  of  the  arms,  then  of  those  mutual 
heart  cords  entangled  in  their  eternal  root. 

We  were  boarding  then,  three  rooms  in  a  family 
hotel,  and  when  I  returned  next  day  at  evening  I 
found  everything — books,  furniture,  piano — all  moved 
to  a  room  upon  the  topmost  story.  I  was  directed 
thither  by  the  smiling  landlord,  more  enlightened 
than  I,  and  I  entered  with  furtive  misgivings  in  my 
soul  and  with  visions  of  that  spacious  Southern  home 
before  my  rueful  eyes. 

But  she  was  there,  radiant  and  triumphant,  still 
flushed  with  exercise  of  hand  and  heart,  viewing 
proudly  her  proof  of  a  new  axiom  that  two  or 
more  bodies  may  occupy  the  same  space  at  the 
selfsame  time. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  didn't  come  before,"  she  said. 
"  I  wanted  to  be  all  settled  before  you  saw  it.  This 
is  just  as  good  as  we  had  before,  and  only  half  the 
price.  Isn't  it  cozy?  And  everything  just  fits. 
And  we  are  away  from  all  the  noise.  And  look 
at  that  lovely  view.  And  now  we  can  pay  off  that 
horrid  note.  Aren't  you  glad  ?  " 

"  But,  Emmeline,  my  heart  breaks  to  see  you 
caged  like  this.  It  is  noble  of  you,  just  like  you, 
but  I  cannot  forgive  myself  that  I  have  brought  you 
to  this,"  said  I,  my  voice  trembling  with  pain  and  joy. 


12  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  Why,  dear  one,  how  can  you  speak  like  that  ? 
We  have  everything  here,  and  each  other  too,  and 
we  shall  be  caged  together." 

I  kissed  that  girlish  face  again  and  blessed  the  gift 
of  heaven,  murmuring  only,  in  tones  that  could  not 
be  heard,  "  He  setteth  the  solitary  in  families,"  and 
as  we  went  down  together  I  wondered  if  that  sudden 
elevation  had  not  brought  us  nearer  heaven  than  we 
had  been  below. 

It  was  largely  owing  to  this  lion-hearted  courage 
that  I  now  found  myself  swiftly  borne  towards  the 
vacant  pulpit  which  yawned  in  stately  expectation  of 
its  weekly  candidate. 

The  invitation  "  to  conduct  divine  services  in  St. 
Cuthbert's,  whose  pulpit  is  now  vacant,"  had  come 
unsought  from  the  kirk  session  of  that  distant 
temple. 

St.  Cuthbert's  was  [the  [stately  cathedral  of  all  ad- 
joining Presbyterianism.  It  was  the  pride  and  crown 
of  a  town  which  stood  in  prosperous  contentment 
upon  the  verge  of  cityhood.  Its  history  was  great 
and  honourable ;  its  traditions  warlike  and  evangel- 
ical ;  its  people  intelligent  and  intense.  Its  vast  area 
was  famed  for  its  throng  of  acute  and  reflective 
hearers,  almost  every  man  of  whom  was  a  sermon 
taster,  while  its  officers  were  the  acknowledged  pos- 
sessors of  letters  patent  to  the  true  ecclesiastical  no- 


The    TURN  of  The   TIDE  13 

bility.  In  my  student  days,  medals  and  scholarships 
were  never  quoted  among  the  trophies  of  our  divinity 
men  if  it  could  be  justly  said  of  any  one  that  he  had 
preached  twice  before  the  hard  heads  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's.  This  triumph  was  recited  with  the  same  rev- 
erent air  as  when  men  used  to  say,  "  He  preached 
before  the  Queen." 

Some  hundreds  of  miles  must  be  traversed  before 
I  reached  the  place,  but  only  some  four-and-twenty 
hours  before  I  reached  the  time,  of  my  trial  sermons. 
Therefore  did  I  convert  my  car  into  a  study  and  my 
unsteady  knee  into  a  desk,  giving  myself  to  the  re- 
hearsal of  those  discourses  by  which  I  was  to  stand 
or  fall.  Every  weak  hand  thereof  I  laboured  to 
strengthen,  and  every  feeble  knee  I  endeavoured  to 
confirm.  And  what  motley  hours  were  those  I  spent 
on  that  fast-flying  train !  All  my  reflections  tended 
to  devotion,  but  yet  my  errand  was  throbbing  with 
ambition. 

Whereupon  I  fell  into  a  strange  and  not  un- 
profitable reverie,  painfully  striving  to  separate  my 
thoughts,  the  sheep  from  the  goats,  and  to  reconcile 
them  the  one  to  the  other.  I  knew  well  enough  the 
human  frame  to  be  persuaded  that  ambition  could 
not  altogether  be  cast  out  from  the  spirit  of  a  man, 
which  led  me  to  reflect  upon  its  possible  place  and 
purpose  if  controlled  by  a  master  hand  beyond  the 


14  ST.   CUTHBERTS 

hand  of  time.  I  strove  to  discover  my  inmost  mo- 
tive, far  behind  all  other  aims,  and  consoled  myself 
with  the  hope  that  God  might  make  it  the  dominant 
and  sovereign  one,  to  which  all  others  might  be  un- 
conscious ministers,  even  as  all  other  lesser  ones  obey 
the  driving  wheel. 

I  somehow  felt  that  the  vision  of  that  radiant  face 
at  home,  for  whom  ambition  sprung  like  a  fountain, 
was  in  no  wise  inconsistent  with  the  holiest  work 
which  awaited  me  on  the  morrow. 

At  thought  of  her,  my  ambition,  earth-born  though 
it  was,  seemed  to  be  robed  in  white  and  to  be  un- 
ashamedly ministering  unto  God.  And  I  was  fain  to 
believe  at  last  that  this  very  hope  of  a  larger  place 
was  from  Himself,  and  that  He  was  the  shepherd  of 
the  sheep  and  of  the  goats  alike.  Whereupon  I  fell 
upon  my  sermons  afresh  with  a  clearer  conscience, 
which  means  a  stronger  mind,  and  swiftly  prayed, 
even  while  I  worked,  that  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 
would  winnow  my  tumultuous  thoughts,  garnering 
the  wheat  unto  Himself  and  burning  the  tares  with 
unquenchable  fire. 

Onward  rushed  the  hours,  and  onward  rolled  the 
train  in  its  desperate  struggle  with  them,  till  the  set- 
ting sun,  victorous  over  both,  reminded  me  that  I 
would  be  in  New  Jedboro  before  the  dusk  deepened 
into  dark.  Then  restored  I  my  sermon  notes,  re- 


The    TURN  of  The    TIDE  15 

burnished  and  repaired,  to  the  trusty  keeping  of  my 
well-worn  valise,  settling  myself  for  one  of  those  de- 
licious baths  of  thought  to  be  truly  enjoyed  only  on 
the  farther  side  of  toil. 

I  had  but  well  begun  to  compose  my  mind  and  to 
forecast  the  probable  experiences  of  the  morrow, 
when  a  rich  Scotch  voice  broke  in  upon  me  with 
the  unmistakable  inquiry,  "  And  where  micht  ye  be 
gaein  ?  " 

I  responded  with  the  name  of  New  Jedboro,  as- 
suming the  air  of  a  man  who  was  bent  only  upon  a 
welcome  visit  to  long-separated  friends.  But  I  had 
reckoned  without  my  host.  My  interrogator  was  a 
Scot,  with  the  Scot's  incurable  curiosity,  always  to 
be  estimated  by  the  indifference  of  his  air.  If  his 
face  be  eloquent  of  profound  unconcern,  then  may 
you  know  that  a  fever  of  inquisitiveness  is  burning  at 
his  heart. 

My  questioner  seemed  to  scarcely  listen  for  my 
answer,  yet  a  tutored  eye  could  tell  that  he  was 
camping  on  my  trail. 

His  next  interrogation  was  launched  with  courteous 
composure :  "  Ye'll  no'  be  the  man  wha's  expeckit  in 
St.  Cuthbert's  ower  the  Sabbath  ?  " 

I  now  saw  that  this  was  no  diluted  Scotsman. 
Bred  on  Canadian  soil,  he  was  yet  original  and  pure. 
He  had  struck  the  native  Scottish  note,  the  ecclesias- 


16  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

tical.  Like  all  his  countrymen,  he  had  a  native  taste 
for  a  minister.  His  instincts  were  towards  the  Kirk, 
and  for  all  things  akin  to  Psalm  or  Presbytery  he  in 
tuitively  took  the  scent.  I  have  maintained  to  this 
day  that  he  sniffed  my  sermons  from  afar,  undeceived 
by  the  worldly  flavour  of  my  rusty  bag. 

I  collected  myself  heroically,  and  replied  that  I 
was  looking  forward  to  the  discharge  of  the  high 
duty  to  which  he  had  referred.  Upon  this  admis- 
sion he  moved  nearer,  as  a  great  lawyer  stalks  his 
quarry  in  the  witness  box.  He  eyed  me  solemnly  for 
a  moment,  with  the  look  of  one  taking  aim,  and 
then  said  slowly  — 

"  I'm  no'  an  elder  in  that  kirk." 

"  Are  you  not  ? "  said  I,  with  as  generous  an 
intonation  of  surprise  as  conscience  would  per- 
mit. 

"  I'm  no'  an  elder,"  he  repeated.  "  But  I  gang  till 
it,"  he  added. 

Then  followed  a  pause,  which  I  dared  to  break 
with  the  remark,  "  I  am  told  it  is  a  spacious 
edifice." 

He  merely  glanced  at  me,  as  if  to  say  that  all 
irrelevant  conversation  was  out  of  place,  and  then 
continued  — 

"  And  I'm  no'  the  precentor ;  I'm  no'  the  man,  ye 
ken,  that  lifts  the  tune." 


The    TURN  of  The    TIDE  17 

I  nodded  sympathetically,  trying  to  convey  my 
sense  of  the  mistake  the  congregation  had  made  in 
its  choice  of  both  elders  and  precentor. 

"  Ye  wud  say,  to  luik  at  me,  that  I'm  no'  an  office- 
seeker,  an'  ye're  richt.  But  I  haud  an  office  for  a' 
that." 

This  time  I  smiled  as  if  light  had  come  to  me,  and 
as  one  who  has  been  reassured  in  his  belief  in  an  over- 
ruling Providence. 

"  What  office  do  you  hold  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Ye  wudna  guess  in  a  twalmonth.  I'm  no'  the 
treasurer,  as  ye're  thinkin' — I'm  the  beadle." 

I  uttered  a  brief  eulogy  upon  the  honour  and  re- 
sponsibility of  that  position,  pointing  out  that  the 
beadle  had  a  dignity  all  his  own,  as  well  as  the  elders 
and  other  officers  of  the  kirk. 

He  endorsed  my  views  with  swift  complacent 
nods. 

"  That's  what  I  aye  think  o'  when  I  see  the  elders 
on  the  Sabbath  mornin',"  said  he ;  "  forbye,  there's 
severals  o'  them,  but  wha  ever  heard  tell  o'  mair  than 
ae  beadle  ?  And  what's  mair,  I  had  raither  be  a  door- 
keeper in  the  Lord's  hoose  than  dwall  in  tents  o'  sin. 
Them's  Dauvit's  words,  and  they  aye  come  to  me 
when  I  compare  mysel'  wi'  the  elders." 

I  hurriedly  commended  his  reference  to  the  Scrip- 
tures, at  the  same  time  avoiding  any  share  in  his 


i8  ST.   CUrHBERT'S 

rather  significant  classification,  remarking  on  the 
other  hand  that  elders  had  their  place,  and  that 
authority  was  indispensable  in  all  churches,  and  the 
very  essence  of  the  Presbyterian  system. 

He  interrupted  me,  fearing  he  had  been  misunder- 
stood. 

"  Mind  ye,"  he  declared  fervently,  "  I'm  no'  settin' 
mysel'  up  even  wi'  the  minister.  I  regard  him  as 
mair  important  than  me — far  mair  important,"  he 
affirmed,  with  reckless  humility,  "but  the  elders, 
they  are  juist  common  fowk  like  mysel'.  An'  at 
times  they  are  mair  than  common.  Me  an'  the 
minister  bear  a  deal  frae  the  elders.  He  aye  bids 
me  to  bear  wi'  them,  an'  I  aye  bid  him  no'  to  mind. 
I  tell  him  whiles  that  we'd  meet  an'  we'd  greet  whaur 
the  elders  cease  frae  troublin' — them's  the  poet's 
words." 

We  were  now  some  two  miles  or  so  from  the  town 
and  the  church  wherein  he  exercised  his  gifts  and 
magnified  his  office ;  and  my  rugged  friend,  dismiss- 
ing the  elders  for  the  time,  reverted  to  the  inquiry  he 
had  seen  fit  previously  to  ignore. 

"  Ye  were  askin'  me  aboot  the  kirk." 

"  Yes,"  said  I  in  a  chastened  voice,  "  I  asked  you 
if  it  was  not  very  large." 

"  Thae  was  no'  yir  exact  words,  but  I  ken  yir 
meanin'.  It's  a  gran'  kirk,  St.  Cuthbert's,  an'  ye'll 


The    TURN  of  The    TIDE.          19 

need  to  speak  oot — no'  to  yell,  ye  ken,  for  I'm  nigh 
deefened  wi'  the  roarin'  o'  the  candidates  sin'  oor 
kirk  was  preached  vacant  by  the  Presbytery.  Dinna 
be  ower  lang ;  and  be  sure  to  read  a'  the  psalm  afore 
ye  sit  doon,  and  hae  the  sough  o'  Sinai  in  yir  dis- 
coorse,  specially  at  the  mornin'  diet ;  an'  aye  back 
up  the  Scriptures  wi'  the  catechism,  an'  hae  a  word 
or  twa  aboot  the  Covenanters,  them  as  sealed  their 
testimony  wi'  their  bluid,  ye  ken.  Ye'll  tak'  ma  ad- 
vice as  kindly ;  it's  mair  than  likely  we'll  never  meet 
again  gin  the  morrow's  gone." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  counsel  and  reached  for  my 
bag,  at  the  signal  of  escaping  steam. 

The  car  door  had  just  closed  behind  me  when  I 
felt  a  hand  upon  my  arm  and  heard  a  now  familiar 
voice  — 

"  An'  dinna  pray  ower  muckle  for  yir  ain  devoted 
folk  at  hame ;  an'  dinna  ask  the  King  an'  Head  o' 
the  Kirk  to  fetch  till  us  a  wise  under-shepherd  o'  the 
flock." 

With  a  word  of  additional  acknowledgment  I 
stepped  on  to  the  station  platform,  but  my  parley 
with  a  burly  cabman  was  interrupted  by  the  same 
voice  whispering  in  my  ear  — 

"  Ye  micht  mind  the  elders  in  yir  prayer ;  gin  they 
were  led  mair  into  the  licht  it  wad  dae  nae  harm  to 
onybody." 


II 

A  MAN  With  a  SECRET 

THERE  was  no  one  about  the  station  to  wel- 
come me  and  none  to  direct,  but  there  were 
many  to  stare  and  wonder. 

The  moderator  of  the  vacant  kirk  had  provided  me 
with  the  address  of  the  house  to  which  he  said  I 
should  repair.  I  was  in  no  wise  mortified  by  this  ap- 
parent lack  of  hospitality,  for  the  aforesaid  modera- 
tor had  reminded  me  in  his  postscript  that  the  folk 
of  St.  Cuthbert's  were  notoriously  Scotch,  untrained 
to  any  degree  of  devotion  at  the  beginning,  but 
famous  for  the  fervour  of  their  loyalty  at  the  close  of 
their  ministers'  careers. 

Whether  or  not  I  should  have  any  career  at  all 
amongst  them  was  the  subject  of  my  thoughts  as  I 
wended  my  way  to  "  Inglewood,"  for  such  was  the 
melodious  title  of  the  house  which  was  to  be  my 
home  during  my  sojourn  in  New  Jedboro. 

Beautiful  for  situation  it  proved  to  be,  nestling 
among  its  sentinels  of  oak,  upon  the  highest  hill  of 
seven  which  garrisoned  the  town.  The  signs  of 
wealth  and  good  taste  were  everywhere  about,  and 
my  probationer's  heart  was  beating  fast  when  I 

20 


A  MAN  With  a  SECRET  21 

pulled  the  polished  silver  knob  whose  patrician 
splendour  had  survived  the  invasion  of  all  electrical 
upstarts. 

I  heard  the  answering  bell  far  within,  breaking 
again  and  again  into  its  startled  cry,  and  my  soul 
answered  it  with  peals  of  such  humiliation  as  is 
known  only  to  the  man  whose  heart  affords  a  home 
to  that  ill-matched  pair,  the  discomfiture  of  the  can- 
didate and  the  pride  of  the  Presbyterian. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  master  of  the  house, 
Michael  Blake,  a  man  of  forty-five  or  so,  the 
wealthy  senior  of  New  Jedboro's  greatest  manu- 
facturing firm. 

I  suppose  he  looked  first  at  me,  but  my  first  sensa- 
tion was  of  his  keen  eye  swiftly  falling  on  the  shabby 
travelling-bag  in  my  left  hand,  my  right  kept  disen- 
gaged for  any  friendly  overture  which  might  await 
me. 

Oh,  the  shame  and  the  anguish  of  those  swift 
glances  towards  one's  travelling-bag  !  Can  no  kind 
genius  devise  a  scheme  for  their  temporary  conceal- 
ment such  as  the  modern  book  agent  has  brought  to 
its  perfection,  full  armed  beneath  the  treacherous 
shelter  of  his  cloak  ? 

I  broke  the  silence  :  "  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  ad- 
dressing Mr.  Blake  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name,"  responded  a  rich,  soulful 


22  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

voice,  resonant  with  the  finest  Scottish  flavour,  "  and 
what  can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?  " 

Presuming  that  it  would  be  hardly  delicate  for  me 
to  state  the  particular  duty  I  was  expecting  him  to 
discharge,  I  betook  myself  to  the  association  of  ideas, 
and  replied  — 

"  I  am  to  preach  in  St.  Cuthbert's  to-morrow," 
hoping  that  this  might  suggest  to  him  the  informa- 
tion he  had  sought. 

Swift  and  beautiful  was  the  transformation.  The 
soul  of  hospitality  leaped  from  his  face,  stern  and 
secretive  though  it  was.  His  eye,  which  had  seemed 
to  hold  my  blushing  bag  at  bay,  turned  now  upon 
me  with  all  the  music  of  a  great  welcome  in  its 
glance.  He  looked  at  me  with  that  frank  abruptness 
which  true  cordiality  creates,  and  when  he  took  my 
hand  in  his  my  heart  leaped  to  the  warm  shelter  of 
its  grasp. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you ;  you  are  welcome 
here,"  he  said,  in  the  quietest  of  tones.  He  drew 
me  gently  within  the  massive  door,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment I  knew  that  I  was  in  the  custody  of  love. 

A  grandfather's  clock,  proud  and  stately  in  its 
sense  of  venerable  faithfulness,  was  gravely  ticking  off 
the  moments  with  hospitality  in  its  tone.  A 
pleasant-faced  lassie  showed  me  to  my  room,  remind- 
ing me  that  the  evening  meal  awaited  my  descent. 


A  MAN  With  a  SECRET  23 

My  host  justified  my  every  impression.  While  we 
disposed  of  the  plain  but  appetizing  fare,  whose 
crown  was  the  speckled  trout  which  his  skill  had 
lured  from  home,  he  submitted  me  to  the  kindliest  of 
cross-examinations  concerning  my  past,  my  scholar- 
ship, my  evangelical  positions,  my  household,  and 
much  else  that  nestled  among  them  all.  Throughout, 
I  felt  the  charm  and  the  power  of  his  gentleness,  and 
under  its  secret  influence  I  yielded  up  what  many  an- 
other would  have  sought  in  vain.  Some  natures 
there  are  which  search  you  as  the  sun  lays  bare  the 
flowers,  making  for  itself  a  pathway  to  their  inmost 
heart,  every  petal  opening  before  its  siege  of  love. 

But  reciprocity  there  was  none.  His  lips  seemed 
to  stand  like  inexorable  sentinels  before  his  heart,  in 
league  with  its  great  secret,  the  guardians  of  a  past 
which  no-man  had  heard  revealed.  One  or  two  ten- 
tative attempts  to  discover  his  antecedents  were  foiled 
by  his  charming  taciturnity. 

"  I  came  from  the  old  country  many  years  ago," 
was  the  only  information  he  vouchsafed  me. 

The  evening  was  spent  in  conversation  which  never 
flamed  but  never  flagged.  My  increasing  opportunity 
for  observation  served  but  to  confirm  my  conviction 
that  I  was  confronted  with  a  man  who  had  one  great 
and  separate  secret  hidden  within  the  impenetrable 
recesses  of  a  contrite  heart.  He  said  little  about  St. 


24  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

Cuthbert's  or  the  morrow,  his  most  significant  obser- 
vation being  to  the  effect  that  the  serious-minded  of 
the  kirk  were  looking  forward  to  my  appearance  with 
hopeful  interest. 

After  he  had  bidden  me  good-night,  he  again 
sought  me  in  my  chamber,  interrupting  the  devo- 
tions which  I  was  striving  to  conduct  in  oblivion  of 
to-morrow  and  in  the  sombre  light  of  the  Judgment 
Day. 

"  Will  you  do  me  a  kindness  in  the  kirk  to- 
morrow ?  "  he  said,  with  almost  pathetic  eagerness. 

I  responded  fervently  that  nothing  could  be  a 
greater  kindness  to  myself  than  the  sense  of  one 
bestowed  on  him. 

"  Very  well,  then,  will  you  give  us  the  Fifty-first 
Psalm  to  sing  at  the  morning  service — it  always 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  the  soul's  staple  food ;  and  let 
us  begin  with  the  fifth  verse — 

"  <  Behold,  Thou  in  the  inward  parts 
With  truth  delighted  art.' 

It  falls  like  water  on  the  thirsty  heart.  And  per- 
haps, if  your  previous  selection  will  permit,  you 
would  give  us  in  the  evening  the  paraphrase  — 

"  '  Come  let  us  to  the  Lord  our  God 
With  contrite  hearts  return.' 

My  mother  first  taught  me  that,"  he  added,  with 


A  MAN  With  a  SECRET  25 

the  first  quiver  of  the  lip  I  yet  had  seen,  "  and  I  have 
learned  it  anew  from  God." 

He  then  swiftly  departed,  little  knowing  that  he 
had  given  me  that  night  a  pillow  for  both  head  and 
heart.  I  fell  asleep,  his  great  quotations  and  his 
earnest  words  flowing  about  my  soul  even  as  the 
ocean  laves  the  shore. 


Ill 

OUR  MUTUAL   TRIAL 

THE  Sabbath  morning  broke  serene  and  fair. 
Thus  also  awoke  my  spirit,  still  invigorated 
by  its  contact  with  one  I  felt  to  be  an  hon- 
est and  God-fearing  man,  whose  ardour  I  knew  was 
chastened  by  a  long-waged  conflict  of  the  soul. 

Our  morning  worship  was  led  by  Mr.  Blake  him- 
self, who  besought  the  Divine  blessing  upon  the 
labours  of  him  who  was  "  for  this  day  '  our  servant 
for  Jesus'  sake.' " 

We  walked  to  the  church  together,  mingling  with 
the  silent  and  reverent  multitude  pressing  towards  a 
common  shrine. 

As  he  left  me  at  the  vestry  door,  he  said  ear- 
nestly— 

"  Forget  that  you  are  a  candidate  of  St.  Cuthbert's, 
and  remember  that  you  are  a  minister  of  God." 

The  beadle  recognized  me  with  a  confidential  nod, 
inspected  the  pulpit  robe  which  I  had  donned,  and 
taking  up  the  "  Books,"  he  led  the  way  to  the  pulpit 
steps  with  an  air  which  might  have  provoked  the 
envy  of  the  most  solemn  mace-bearer  who  ever 

served  his  king. 

26 


OUR  MUTUAL    TRIAL  27 

He  opened  the  door,  and  then  there  appeared  to 
my  wondering  view  a  sea  of  expectant  faces,  vast 
beyond  my  utmost  dream.  They  were  steeped  in 
silence,  a  silence  so  intense  that  it  left  the  impress 
on  my  mind  of  an  ocean,  majestic  in  its  heaving 
grandeur ;  for  the  stiller  you  find  the  sea  of  human 
faces  the  more  reasonably  may  you  dread  the  trough 
of  human  waves. 

The  wonder  of  the  reverent  and  the  sneer  of  the 
scornful  have  alike  been  prompted  by  the  preaching 
of  a  candidate.  Something  strange  and  incongruous 
seems  to  pertain  to  the  performance  of  a  man  whose 
acknowledged  purpose  is  the  dual  one  of  winning 
alike  the  souls  and  the  smiles  of  men.  He  seeks, 
as  all  preachers  are  supposed  to  do,  the  uplift  of  his 
hearers'  souls,  while  his  very  appearance  is  a  pledge 
of  his  desire  to  so  commend  himself  as  to  be  their 
favourite  and  their  choice.  Much  hath  been  written, 
and  more  hath  been  said,  of  the  humiliation  to  which 
he  must  submit  who  occupies  a  vacant  pulpit  as  the 
applicant  for  a  vacant  kirk. 

But,  whatever  ground  there  be  for  these  reflections, 
I  felt  the  force  of  none  of  them  that  radiant  Sabbath 
morning  in  St.  Cuthbert's.  My  Calvinism,  which  is 
regarded  by  those  who  know  it  not  as  dragonlike 
and  altogether  drastic,  proved  now  my  comfort  and 
my  stay,  and  within  its  vast  pavilion  I  seemed  to 


28  ST.    CUTHBBRT'S 

hide  as  in  the  covert  of  the  Eternal.  For  there 
surged  through  heart  and  brain  the  stately  thought 
that  such  experimental  dealings  between  a  minister 
and  a  people  might  be  sublimated  before  reverent 
eyes,  hallowed  as  a  holy  venture,  and  destined  to  play 
its  part  in  the  economy  of  God. 

His  claim  seemed  loftier  far  than  any  obligation 
between  my  heart  and  man,  and  so  uplifted  was 
I  by  the  sense  of  a  commission  which  even  candida- 
ture could  neither  invalidate  nor  deform,  that  all 
sense  of  servility,  all  cringing  thought  of  livelihood, 
all  fear  of  faltering  and  all  faltering  of  fear,  seemed 
to  flee  away  even  as  the  blasphemy  of  darkness 
retreats  before  the  sanctities  of  the  morn.  In  very 
truth  I  forgot  that  I  was  a  candidate  of  St.  Cuthbert's 
and  seemed  but  to  remember  that  I  was  a  minister 
of  God. 

Whether  my  sermon  was  good  or  ill  I  could  not 
then  have  told;  but  I  could  well  have  told  that  a 
victorious  secret  is  to  him  who  strives  after  earnest- 
ness of  heart,  unvexed  by  the  clamour  of  his  own 
rebellious  and  ambitious  soul. 

The  congregation  was  vast  and  reverent  as  be- 
fitted the  purpose  of  the  hour;  the  most  careless 
eye  could  mark  the  strong  and  reflective  cast  of 
those  Scottish  faces,  whose  native  adamant  was  but 
little  softened  by  their  sojourn  beneath  Canadian 


OUR  MUTUAL    TRIAL  29 

skies.  Reverence  seemed  to  clothe  these  worship- 
pers like  a  garment.  They  were  as  men  who  believed 
in  God,  whereby  are  men  most  fearsome  and  yet 
most  glorious  to  look  upon.  It  was  the  fearsome- 
ness  of  such  a  face,  garrisoned  in  God,  which  had 
beat  back  the  haughty  gaze  of  Mary  when  she  met 
the  eye  of  Knox,  burning  with  a  fire  which  no  torch 
of  time  had  kindled. 

And  when  they  sang  their  opening  hymn,  they 
seemed  to  stride  upwards  as  mountaineers,  for  they 
lifted  up  their  eyes  as  men  who  would  cast  them 
down  again  only  before  God  Himself.  From  word 
to  word  they  climbed,  and  from  line  to  line,  as 
though  each  word  or  line  were  some  abutting  crag 
of  the  very  hill  of  God.  Besides,  the  psalm  they 
sung  was  this  — 

"  I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes 

From  whence  doth  come  mine  aid." 

Their  intensity  steadied  my  very  soul.  They 
seemed  to  look  at  me  as  if  to  say, "  We  are  in  earnest 
if  you  are ;  our  kirk  is  vacant  but  our  hearts  are 
full,"  and  the  pulpit  in  which  I  stood,  and  in  which 
many  a  hapless  man  had  stood  before,  was  hallowed 
by  its  solemn  garrison  of  waiting  souls,  and  redeemed 
of  all  taint  of  treason  towards  its  sacred  trust. 

When  I  called  them  unto  prayer,  they  answered  as 


30  57.    CUTHBERT'  S 

the  forest  answers  when  the  wind  brings  it  word 
from  heaven,  save  some  venerable  few  who  rose  erect 
(as  was  their  fathers'  way),  standing  like  sentinel 
oaks  amid  lesser  trees,  they  also  bending  with  an 
obeisance  prompted  from  within.  It  seemed  not 
hard  to  lead  these  earnest  hearts  in  prayer — they 
seemed  the  rather  to  lead  my  soul  as  by  a  more  fa- 
miliar path ;  or,  to  state  the  truth  more  utterly,  their 
devoutness  seemed  to  bear  me  on,  as  the  deep  ocean 
bears  itself  and  its  every  burden  towards  the  shore. 

This  intensity  of  worship  pervaded  its  every  act. 
They  joined  in  the  reading  of  the  Word  as  those  who 
must  both  hear  and  see  it  for  themselves,  their  books 
opening  and  closing  in  unison  with  the  larger  one 
which  decked  their  pulpit  like  a  crown. 

Even  when  the  collection  was  taken  up  they  main- 
tained their  loftiness  of  poise.  It  had  been  often  told 
me  that  Scotch  folk  contribute  to  an  offering  with 
the  same  heroism  wherewith  their  ancestors  opened 
their  unshrinking  veins,  doling  forth  their  money, 
like  their  blood,  with  a  martyr's  air.  But  although  I 
remarked  that  some  Scottish  eyes  followed  their  de- 
parting coins  with  glances  of  parental  tenderness, 
there  was  yet  a  solemn  stateliness  about  the  opera- 
tion which  greatly  won  me,  even  those  who  dedicated 
the  homeliest  copper  doing  it  unbashedly,  as  if  to 
the  Lord,  and  not  unto  men. 


OUR  MUTUAL    TRIAL  31 

We  closed  with  the  penitential  psalm  which  Mr. 
Blake  had  asked,  and  its  great  words  seemed  charged 
with  the  strong  reality  of  men  who  believed  in  sin 
with  the  same  old-fashioned  earnestness  as  marked 
their  faith  in  God,  the  two  answering  the  one  to  the 
other  as  deep  calleth  unto  deep,  eternally  harmonious 
as  they  are. 

The  congregation  swayed  slowly  down  the  aisle, 
Scottishly  cold  and  still,  like  the  processional  of  the 
ice  in  the  spring-time.  They  reminded  me  of  noble 
bergs  drifting  through  the  Straits  of  Belle  Isle.  It 
was  a  Presbyterian  flood,  and  every  man  a  floe.  But 
I  suspected  mightily  that  they  were  nevertheless  the 
product  of  the  spring,  and  somehow  felt  that  they 
dwelt  near  the  confines  of  the  summer.  The  fire 
which  warmed  their  hearts  had  touched  my  own,  and 
in  that  very  moment  wherein  they  turned  their  backs 
upon  me,  I  pursued  them  with  surrendering  tender- 
ness, and  coveted  for  my  own  the  rugged  faithfulness 
which  hath  now  enriched  these  many  golden  years. 

One  or  two  turned  to  glance  at  me,  but  when  their 
gaze  met  mine  they  despatched  their  eyes  on  some 
impartial  quest,  as  if  caressing  their  noble  church  or 
looking  for  some  lingering  friend. 

The  precentor,  whose  place  was  in  a  kind  of 
songster's  pulpit  just  below  me,  was  wreathed  in  the 
complacent  air  of  a  man  who  has  discharged  a  lofty 


32  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

duty  and  has  done  it  well.  He  had  borne  himself 
throughout  as  the  real  master  of  the  entire  service, 
and  as  one  who  had  ruled  from  an  untitled  throne. 
He  cast  me  one  or  two  swift  glances,  such  as  would 
become  an  engineer  who  had  brought  his  train  or  a 
pilot  who  had  brought  his  ship  to  the  desired  haven. 
I  returned  his  overture  with  a  look  of  humble  grati- 
tude, and  he  thereupon  relaxed  as  one  well  content 
with  what  was  his  hard-earned  due,  but  nothing 
more.  I  have  well  learned  since  then  that  by  so 
much  as  one  values  one's  peace,  by  that  much  must 
one  reverence  the  precentor. 

When  I  regained  the  vestry  I  found  it  peopled 
with  six  or  seven  elders  (a  great  and  sweltering  pop- 
ulation), but  no  word  of  favour  or  approval  escaped 
a  single  Scottish  lip.  Their  hour  had  not  yet  come ; 
but  I  knew  it  not,  and  was  proportionately  cast  down 
by  what  seemed  to  me  a  silent  rhetoric  of  scorn. 
But  it  was  the  will  of  heaven  to  somewhat  set  aside 
what  I  unknowingly  estimated  to  be  the  verdict  of 
indifference.  The  beadle,  as  one  with  whom  I  had 
had  a  past,  beckoned  me  without,  whispering  that  a 
"  wumman  body,"  a  stranger,  desired  to  speak  with 
me  in  an  adjoining  room. 

Her  story  was  short  and  sad;  her  request,  the 
sobbing  entreaty  of  a  broken  heart  that  I  would  pray 
for  her  darling  and  her  prodigal,  her  first-born,  wan- 


OUR  MUTUAL    TRIAL  33 

dering  in  that  farthest  of  all  countries  which  lies 
beyond  the  confines  of  a  mother's  ken.  I  answered 
her  with  a  glance  which  owned  the  kinship  of  her 
tears,  and  pledged  it  with  a  hand  which,  thank  God, 
has  ever  found  its  warmest  welcome  in  the  hand  of 
woe.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  vestry  unafraid. 
"  For  what,"  thought  I,  "  can  these  elders  do  either 
for  me  or  against  me,  if  I  am  really  a  priest  unto 
God  for  one  mother's  son?  This  woman  has  evi- 
dently forgotten  that  I  am  a  candidate  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's,  and  has  remembered  only  that  I  am  a  minister 
of  God." 


IV 

OUR  MUTUAL  YERDICT 

THE  evening  service  was  like  unto  that  of 
the  morning,  the  only  difference  being  that 
I  saw  this  sturdy  folk,  mountain-like,  in  the 
light  of  the  setting,  instead  of  the  rising  sun.  But 
still  no  word  or  hint  revealed  to  me  the  favour  or  dis- 
favour with  which  my  efforts  had  been  received  by 
the  people  of  St.  Cuthbert's,  save  only  that  one  man 
ventured  to  remark  that  I  had  brought  him  in  mind 
of  Thomas  Chalmers. 

I  hurriedly  exclaimed,  "  Is  that  so  ? "  in  a  tone 
which  all  too  plainly  implored  him  to  go  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  he.  "  When  ye  blawed  yir  nose,  if  ma 
een  had  been  shut,  I  cud  hae  swore  it  was  Cham- 
mers,"  whereupon  the  last  state  of  me  was  worse  than 
the  first. 

But  I  was  a  little  comforted  in  overhearing  one 
Scot  say  to  another  as  they  passed  me  on  their  home- 
ward way,  "  He's  no'  to  be  expeckit  to  preach  like 
yon  man  frae  Hawick,"  to  which  the  other  replied, 
and  I  caught  his  closing  words,  "  But  there  was  a  bit 
at  the  end  that  wasna  bad." 

This  was  but  a  thin  gruel  to  satisfy  one's  wonder- 
34 


OUR  MUTUAL   VERDICT          35 

ing  soul,  but  it  was  shortly  thickened  by  the  beadle. 
He  was  waiting  for  us  at  Mr.  Blake's,  wishing  in- 
struction about  some  task  that  fell  within  his  duties, 
but  he  managed  to  have  a  word  with  me  — 

"  I  canna  tell  what  waits  ye,  but,  gin  ye'd  like  to 
see  through  the  manse,  I'll  tak'  ye  through  the 
morn." 

I  thanked  him,  declining,  but  secretly  blessed  him 
and  inwardly  rejoiced. 

At  worship  that  night  my  gentle  host  read  the 
story  of  the  prodigal,  and  when  we  knelt  to  pray  he 
repeated  twice, "  I  will  arise  and  go  unto  my  Father," 
and  in  the  pause  I  felt  that  the  wave  of  some  beset- 
ting memory  was  beating  on  the  shore ;  more  and 
more  was  it  borne  in  upon  me  that  this  man  had  a 
past,  shared  only  by  himself  and  God  and  some  one 
else  unknown. 

The  morning  witnessed  my  departure  from  New 
Jedboro,  and  from  the  window  of  the  train  I  watched 
its  fast-retreating  hills,  so  often  trodden  by  me  since 
with  the  swinging  stride  of  joy,  or  clambered  with 
the  heavy  step  of  care. 

There  is  neither  time  nor  space  to  set  down  in  de- 
tail all  that  followed.  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  while 
they  were  musing  the  fire  burned,  and  the  good  folk 
of  St.  Cuthbert's  slowly  and  solemnly  resolved  to  call 
me  to  their  ancient  church. 


36  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

They  were  scandalized  by  a  report,  which  spread 
with  pestilential  ease,  that  I  had  known  my  wife  but 
three  short  weeks  when  I  asked  her  to  walk  the  long 
walk  with  me.  This  and  other  rumours  provoked 
them  to  despatch  a  sage  and  ponderous  officer  to  the 
distant  scene  of  my  labours,  that  he  might  investigate 
them  on  the  spot.  He  came,  he  saw,  he  was  con- 
quered. My  wife  lassoed  him  at  a  throw.  He  went 
home  in  fetters,  his  eloquence  alone  unloosed.  Long 
before  the  night  on  which  they  should  meet  to  call, 
he  had  brandished  his  opinion  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
my  delirious  haste. 

"  But  did  he  mak'  his  choice  so  redeek'lus  sud- 
den ?  "  he  was  asked. 

"  I  dinna  ken,"  he  answered  tropically,  "  and  I 
dinna  care.  If  he  bided  three  weeks,  he  bided  ower 
lang.  I  kent  that  fine  when  ance  I  saw  her.  Noo, 
I  pit  it  till  ye,  gin  ye  were  crossin'  a  desert  place,  an' 
ye  saw  the  Rose  o'  Sharon  afore  ye,  wad  ye  no'  pluck 
it  gin  ye  micht,  and  pluck  it  quick  ?  I  pit  it  till  ye." 
And  they  answered  him  not  a  word,  for  there  is  no 
debater  like  the  heart. 

I  was  told  in  after  days  that  my  historic  friend  the 
beadle  canvassed  for  me  night  and  day,  laying  mighty 
stress  upon  the  fact  that  he  knew  me  well,  since  he 
had  travelled  with  me,  assuring  every  ear  that  I  was 
"  uncommon  ceevil,"  and  proudly  laying  bare  the  in- 


OUR   MUTUAL   YERDICT          37 

dependent  scorn  with  which  I  had  met  his  proposi- 
tion to  inspect  the  manse. 

"  But  we  micht  get  him  yet,"  he  concluded,  "  gin 
we  gang  richt  aboot  it." 

These  testimonials,  together  with  his  plaintive  ap- 
peal to  be  relieved  of  the  responsibility  which  the 
absence  of  a  fixed  minister  threw  upon  himself,  went 
far  to  confirm  the  wavering. 

Nor  shall  I  linger  to  trace  the  workings  of  that 
ponderous  machinery  whereby  I  was  at  last  installed 
as  the  minister  of  St.  Cuthbert's  Church.  Even  the 
great  assemblage  which  gathered  to  welcome  us,  with 
its  infinite  introductions,  its  features  social,  devotional, 
and  deputational,  its  addresses  civic  and  ecclesiastical, 
must  be  dismissed  with  a  word. 

It  reminded  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  the 
launching  of  a  ship,  and  beneath  all  its  tumult  of 
artillery  there  thrummed  the  deep  undertone  of  joy. 
For  St.  Cuthbert's,  contrary  to  its  historic  way,  had 
parted  with  its  last  minister,  a  man  of  great  ability, 
amid  the  smoke  of  battle,  and  he  had  gone  forth  as 
Napoleon  went,  with  a  martial  record  which  the  cor- 
roding years  even  yet  have  scarcely  tarnished.  Fierce 
had  been  the  fight,  the  factions  grimly  equal,  and  be- 
clouded with  a  sublime  confusion  as  to  which  side  had 
been  led  by  heaven  and  which  by  Belial.  On  this 
point,  even  now,  they  do  not  exactly  see  eye  to  eye. 


38  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

And  this  deep  joy,  whose  untiring  hum  (joy's  na- 
tive voice)  had  entwined  itself  with  every  exercise  of 
our  exultant  gathering  was  born  of  the  assurance  of 
returning  harmony  and  the  welcome  calm  which  fol- 
lows the  departing  storm.  The  gentle  vines  of  peace 
were  beginning  to  clothe  their  scarred  and  disfigured 
Zion. 

St.  Cuthbert's  hailed  that  night  as  the  hour  of  its 
convalescence.  In  consequence,  every  speech,  even 
those  from  dry  and  desiccated  lips,  was  coloured  with 
the  melody  of  hope.  Even  hoary  jokes  and  ances- 
tral stories,  kept  for  tea-meetings  as  hard  tack  is 
kept  for  the  army  and  navy,  were  disinfected  by 
the  kindly  flavour  which  brooded  like  an  April  cloud. 

And  now  it  is  my  purpose  to  set  down  as  best  I 
may  some  of  the  features  of  my  life,  and  a  few  of 
my  most  vivid  observations  among  these  remarkable 
folk. 

The  greater  number  of  them  had  been  born  in 
bonnie  Scotland,  and  all  of  them,  even  those  who 
had  never  seen  their  ancestral  home,  spoke  and  lived 
and  thought  as  though  they  had  just  come  from  the 
heathery  hills.  They  were  sprung  from  the  loins  of 
heroes,  the  stalwart  pioneers  from  Roxburghshire 
and  Ayrshire  and  Dumfries,  and  many  another  noble 
spot  whose  noblest  sons  had  gone  forth  to  earth's  re- 
motest bound,  flaming  with  love  of  liberty  and  God 


OUR  MUTUAL   YERDICT          39 

Seventy  years  before  they  had  settled  about  New 
Jedboro,  thinking  of  the  well-loved  Scottish  town 
whose  name  it  bore. 

Soon  the  echoing  forest  bowed  before  their 
gleaming  axes,  and  they  made  the  wilderness  to 
blossom  like  the  rose.  Comfort,  and  even  wealth, 
came  to  them  at  the  imperious  beck  of  industry. 
Stern  and  earnest,  reckoning  frivolity  a  sin,  finding 
their  pleasure  in  a  growing  capacity  for  self-denial 
and  a  growing  scorn  of  needless  luxury,  they 
cherished  in  their  blood  the  iron  which  had  been  be- 
queathed by  noble  sires. 

Hand  in  hand  with  God  like  sons  of  Knox,  they 
built  the  school  and  the  church  with  the  first- 
fruits  of  their  toil,  disporting  themselves  again  in 
their  unforgotten  psalms,  worshipping  after  the  dear- 
bought  manner  of  their  fathers,  not  a  few  of  whom 
had  paid  the  price  of  blood,  nor  deemed  it  sacrifice. 

Like  draws  to  like,  they  say.  With  St.  Cuthbert's 
this  had  certainly  been  the  case ;  for  every  minister 
who  had  served  them  heretofore  had  been  both  born 
and  educated  in  their  motherland. 

Three  had  they  had.  The  first  was  the  Reverend 
John  Grant,  Doctor  of  Divinity,  from  Greenock ;  the 
second,  the  Reverend  James  Kay,  from  Aberdeen ; 
the  third,  my  immediate  predecessor,  the  Reverend 
Henry  Alexander  from  Glasgow. 


40  S7.   CUTHBER  T' S 

Like  a  mountain  peak  towered  the  memory  of 
their  first  minister,  a  man  of  gigantic  power,  scholarly 
and  profound,  grimly  genial,  carrying  with  him  every- 
where the  air  of  the  Eternal.  He  was  as  eloquent  al- 
most as  human  lips  can  be,  magnetic  to  the  point  of 
tyranny,  and  grandly  independent  of  everything  and 
every  one  but  God.  His  fame  covered  Canada  like  a 
flood.  American  colleges  sought  the  honour  of 
their  laurel  on  his  brow,  and  from  one  of  the  best  he 
accepted  his  Doctor's  hood.  City  congregations 
coveted  him  with  pious  envy,  but  he  hearkened  to 
few  and  coquetted  with  none.  He  had  assumed  the 
cure  of  St.  Cuthbert's  when  it  was  almost  entirely 
(as  it  was  still  considerably)  a  country  congregation, 
revelling  in  solitude  and  souls,  both  of  which  were 
nearer  here  to  Nature's  heart  than  amid  the  swelter- 
ing throng.  Here  he  cherished  his  mighty  heart  and 
gave  eternal  bent  to  hearts  only  less  mighty  than  his 
own. 

"  Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed  nor  wished  to  change  his  place." 

Throughout  my  ministry  in  St.  Cuthbert's  the 
mention  of  his  name  was  the  signal  for  a  cloud  of 
witnesses.  Forty  years  had  elapsed  since  the  coun- 
tryside followed  him  to  his  grave,  shrouded  in  gown 
and  bands,  a  regalia  more  than  royal  to  their  loving 


OUR  MUTUAL   YERD1CT          41 

eyes.  But  they  had  guarded  his  memory  with  the 
vigilance  which  belongs  only  to  the  broken  heart, 
and  the  traditions  of  his  greatness  were  fresh  among 
them  still. 

"  I  likit  the  ither  twa  fine,"  said  a  shrewd  sermon 
taster  to  me  soon  after  my  arrival,  "  but  their  ser- 
mons didna  plough  the  soul  like  the  Doctor's ;  we 
hae  na  had  the  fallow  grun'  turned  up  sin'  he  dee'd." 

And  so  said,  or  thought,  they  all. 


My  KIRK  SESSION 

HE  would  need  a  brave  and  facile  pen  who 
would  venture  to  portray  the  kirk  session 
of  St.  Cuthbert's  Church.  For  any  kirk 
session  is  far  from  commonplace,  let  alone  the  session 
of  such  a  church  as  mine.  Kirk  sessions  are  the 
bloom  of  Scottish  character  in  particular  and  the 
crown  and  glory  of  mankind  in  general.  Piety, 
sobriety,  severity,  these  are  the  three  outstanding 
graces  which  they  illustrate  supremely;  but  inter- 
locked with  these  are  many  other  gifts  and  virtues  in 
varying  degrees  of  culture. 

In  St.  Cuthbert's,  the  pride  of  eldership  was  chiefly 
vested  in  their  wives  and  daughters. 

"  Ye  mauna  be  ower  uplifted  aboot  yir  faither's 
office,"  was  the  oft-repeated  admonition  of  the  elder's 
wife  to  the  elder's  children,  and  the  children  were  not 
slow  to  remark  that  her  words  were  one  part  rebuke 
and  ten  parts  pride.  For  to  mothers  and  bairns  alike 
he  appeared  as  one  of  God's  kings  and  priests  when 
he  walked  down  the  aisle  with  the  vessels  of  the 
Lord. 

Many  of  these  men  were  poor,  grandly  and 
4* 


My  KIRK  SESSION  43 

pathetically  poor,  but  none  was  poor  enough  to  ap- 
pear at  the  sacramental  board  without  his  "  blacks," 
radiant  with  the  lustre  of  open  love  and  sacred 
sacrifice.  This  I  afterwards  learned  was  their  wives' 
doing,  and  marvellous  in  my  eyes.  Ah  me !  How 
many  a  decently  apparelled  husband,  how  many  a 
white-robed  child,  has  come  forth  out  of  great  tribu- 
lation not  their  own.  Indeed,  uncounted  multitudes 
there  are  who  shall  walk  in  white  before  the  throne 
of  God,  whose  robes  the  secret  sacrifice  of  loving 
hearts  hath  whitened  as  no  fuller  of  earth  can  whiten 
them. 

My  first  meeting  with  the  kirk  session  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  was  an  epoch-marking  incident.  Twenty- 
eight  there  were  who  sat  about  the  session-room, 
every  man  but  one  an  importation  from  Caledonia's 
rugged  hills.  Roxburgh's  covenanting  heroes,  Wig- 
tonshire's  triumphant  martyrs,  Dumfriesshire  and  her 
Cameronians,  with  their  great  namesake's  lion 
heart ;  Ayrshire,  with  her  bloody  memories  of  moor 
and  moss-hags,  of  quarry  and  conventicle,  of  Laud 
and  liberty — all  these  had  filtered  through  and  reap- 
peared in  these  silent  and  stalwart  men. 

Of  these  eight-and-twenty  faces  at  least  one  score 
had  the  cast  of  marble  and  the  stamp  of  eternity  upon 
them.  I  felt  like  a  hillock  nestling  at  the  feet  of 
lofty  peaks,  for  I  do  make  my  oath  that  when  you  are 


44  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

begirt  by  men  in  whose  veins  there  flows  the  blood 
of  martyrs,  who  have  been  slowly  nurtured  upon 
such  stately  doctrines  as  are  their  daily  food,  who 
actually  believe  in  God  as  a  living  participator  in  the 
affairs  of  time,  whose  mental  pabulum  has  been 
Thomas  Boston  and  Samuel  Rutherford  and  Philip 
Doddridge,  and  who  have  used  these  worthies  but  as 
helps  to  climb  that  unpinnacled  hill  of  the  Eternal 
Word — when  you  get  such  men  as  these,  multiplied 
a  hundredfold  by  the  stern  consciousness  of  a  relig- 
ious trust,  if  you  are  not  then  among  the  Rockies  of 
flesh  and  blood,  I  am  as  one  who  sees  men  like  walk- 
ing trees,  ignorant  of  the  true  altitudes  of  human 
life. 

But  I  was  yet  to  learn,  and  to  learn  by  heart  (the 
great  medium  of  all  real  character),  that  many  a  fra- 
grant flower  may  bloom  in  secret  clefts  of  rock- 
bound  hills,  frowning  and  forbidding  though  they  be. 
For  God  loves  to  surprise  us,  especially  in  happy 
ways ;  and  His  is  a  sanguine  sun. 

It  should  now  be  stated  that  I  began  my  ministry 
in  St.  Cuthbert's  with  the  handicap  of  an  Irish  an- 
cestry. How  then  was  I  to  wear  the  hodden  gray  ? 
Or  how  was  I  to  commingle  myself  with  that  historic 
tide  which  I  well  knew  the  Scottish  heart  regarded 
as  fed  more  than  any  other  from  the  river  that  makes 
glad  the  city  of  God  ? 


My  KIRK  SESSION  45 

My  every  vein  was  already  full  to  overflowing  with 
Irish  blood.  My  father  was  from  Ballymena  and  my 
mother  was  from  Cork,  a  solution  which  no  chemistry 
could  cure.  I  was  inclined  by  nature  and  confirmed 
by  practice  towards  a  reasonable  pride  in  my  ances- 
tral land.  But  odds  were  against  me.  Even  the 
mistress  of  my  manse,  whose  judgment  was  wont  to 
take  counsel  of  her  kindly  heart,  even  she  remon- 
strated when  she  first  discovered  my  nativity,  and  has 
never  since  been  altogether  thankful,  though  she 
strives  hard  to  be  resigned. 

"  Why  do  you  always  flaunt  your  Irish  origin  ?  " 
she  reasoned  once.  "  If  it  is  good  stock,  be  modest 
about  it ;  and  if  it  is  not,  the  less  said  the  better." 

Then  she  remarked  that  she  was  no  do.ubt  prej- 
udiced, for  she  had  once  witnessed  the  noble  proces- 
sion in  New  York  on  St.  Patrick's  Day;  and  she 
added  that  they  all  seemed  to  have  mouths  like  the 
Mammoth  Cave  of  Kentucky  and  complexions  like 
an  asphalt  pavement  under  repairs.  My  wife's  power 
of  detecting  analogies  was  uncommonly  acute. 
****** 

When  the  session  had  been  duly  constituted,  the 
minutes  of  the  last  meeting  were  read  by  the  session 
clerk.  It  is  probably  quite  within  the  mark  to  say 
that  all  ecclesiastical  officialdom  can  produce  no  other 
dignitary  with  the  same  stern  grandeur  as  pertains  to 


46  57.    CUTHBERTS 

the  clerk  of  a  Scottish  session.  I  have  witnessed 
archbishops  in  their  robes  and  with  their  mitres,  and 
have  marvelled  at  the  gravity  with  which  they  clothed 
the  most  ponderous  frivolities,  at  their  stately  genu- 
flections, at  the  swift  shedding  and  donning  of  their 
bewildering  millineries.  I  have  seen  General  Booth 
resplendent  in  his  flaming  clericals.  I  have  even 
looked  on  the  bespangled  Dowie,  dazzling  and  be- 
dazzled— but  none  of  these  has  the  majesty  of  poise, 
the  aroma  of  responsibility,  or  the  inexorable  air  of 
authority  which  mark  the  true-bred  session  clerk. 

The  minutes  having  been  read  and  hermetically 
sealed,  I  addressed  the  elders  briefly,  referring  to  my 
great  duties  and  my  poor  abilities,  after  which  I  in- 
vited them  to  a  general  deliberation,  and  begged 
them  to  acquaint  me  with  the  mind  and  temper  of 
the  congregation,  asking  such  advice  as  might  be 
useful  in  entering  upon  my  labours. 

"  We  bid  ye  welcome,  moderator,"  began  the 
senior  elder,  by  name  Sandy  Grant,  "  an'  we'll  do 
what  in  us  lies  to  haud  up  yir  hands ;  ye're  no'  oor 
servant,  but  oor  minister,  and  we're  a'  ready  to  do 
yir  biddin',  gin  it's  the  will  o'  God.  Ye're  sittin'  in 
a  michty  seat,  moderator.  It  was  frae  that  chair  that 
oor  first  minister  spak'  till  us  in  far  ither  days." 

At  this  reference  to  the  golden  age,  I  saw  a  wave 
of  tenderness  break  over  the  faces  of  the  older  men. 


My  KIRK  SESSION  47 

"  Ay,  I  mind  weel  the  nicht  Doctor  Grant  sat 
amang  us  for  the  first  time,  as  ye're  sittin'  noo." 

This  time  it  was  Ronald  M'Gregor  who  had  spoken, 
the  love-light  on  whose  face  even  sixty  winters  could 
not  disguise. 

•'  We'll  never  look  upon  his  like  again.  Ye've 
mebbe  watched  the  storm,  sir,  when  it  beat  upon  the 
shore.  His  style  o'  delivery  was  like  the  ragin'  o' 
the  waves.  Ye  see  that  buik,  moderator,  yir  haun's 
restin'  on  the  tap  o't.  Weel,  he  dune  for  sax  o'  them 
the  while  he  was  oor  minister.  We  bocht  the  strong- 
est bound  o'  them,  but  he  banged  them  to  tatters 
amazin'  fast.  A  page  at  a  skite.  Times  it  was  like 
the  driftin'  o'  the  leaves  in  the  fall.  He  was  graun' 
on  the  terrors  o'  the  law.  We  haena  been  what's  to 
say  clean  uplifted  wi'  the  michty  truth  o'  the  punish- 
ment o'  the  lost  sin'  his  mooth  was  closed  in  death," 
and  Ronald  sighed  the  sigh  of  the  hungry  heart. 

"  Div  ye  no'  mind  the  Doctor  on  the  decrees,  the 
simmer  o'  the  cholera — div  ye  no'  mind  yon,  Ron- 
ald t1 "  said  Thomas  Laidlaw,  swept  into  the  seething 
tide  of  reminiscence ;  but  here  the  session  clerk  rose 
to  a  point  of  order. 

"  The  members  o'  this  court  will  address  the  mod- 
erator," he  said  sternly.  "  Moreover,  we  are  here  for 
business,  not  for  history.  We  might  well  think 
shame  of  ourselves,  glorifying  the  old  when  we 


48  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

should  be  welcoming  the  new.  We're  no'  to  be  aye 
dwellin'  amang  the  tombs  "  (this  with  a  rise  in  feeling 
and  a  drop  in  language).  "  Besides,  Doctor  Grant 
was  no'  a  common  man,  and  it's  no  becomin'  to  be 
comparin'  common  men  along  wi'  the  likes  o'  him." 

So  this,  thought  I,  is  the  Scottish  mode  of  paying 
compliments.  I  had  always  heard  that  their  little 
tributes  were  more  medicinal  than  confectionery. 

Then  followed  a  painful  calm,  for  Scottish  calms 
are  stormy  things. 

It  was  Michael  Blake  who  first  resumed. 

"  Let  us  forget  the  things  which  are  behind,"  he 
said,  "  if  we  only  can,"  and  there  was  a  wealth  of 
agony  in  his  words, "  and  let  us  press  forth  unto  those 
things  which  are  before.  We  greet  you,  moderator, 
as  the  messenger  of  peace,  for  we  are  all  but  sinful 
men  and  unworthy  of  the  trust  we  hold.  I  hope 
you  will  preach  to  us  the  grace  of  God,  for  we  have 
learned  ourselves  the  terrors  of  the  law." 

"  I  move  that  we  adjourn,"  interjected  Ronald 
M'Gregor,  alarmed  for  the  retirement  of  Sinai,  and 
fearful  of  a  too  early  spring. 

"  I  second  that,"  said  a  rugged  patriarch,  hitherto 
silent. 

"  But  I  hope  the  moderator  '11  permit  me  to  ex- 
press the  hope  that  he'll  no'  shorten  up  the  services, 
and  that  he'll  gie  the  young  fowk  mair  o'  the  cate 


My  KIRK  SESSION  49 

chism  than  we  hae  been  gettin',  and  mak'  the  sacra- 
ments mair  searchin'  to  the  soul,"  said  Saunders 
M'Tavish. 

"  Ye're  oot  o'  order,"  interrupted  the  clerk ; 
"  there's  a  motion  to  adjourn  afore  the  Chair." 

"  But  I  maun  tak'  ma  staun,"  exclaimed  Saunders. 

"  Ye  mauna,"  retorted  the  clerk,  "  ye  maun  tak' 
yir  seat,"  and  Saunders  dropped  where  he  stood, 
while  his  fellow-elders  looked  into  each  other's  faces 
as  if  to  say  that  this  thing  might  have  befallen  any 
one  of  them. 


VI 

The  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND 

I  SOON  began,  of  course,  the  visitation  of  my 
flock.  Although  my  title  to  youth  was  at  that 
time  undisputed,  and  although  the  unreflective 
would  have  labelled  me  "  new  school,"  the  impor- 
tance of  faithful  visiting  was  ever  before  my  mind. 

The  curate's  place  (unhappiest  of  men)  had  more 
than  once  been  offered  me  at  the  hands  of  portly 
ministers,  prepared  to  deny  themselves  all  the  visit- 
ing, they  to  take  all  the  preaching  and  nearly  all  the 
salary,  while  their  untitled  slave  was  to  deny  himself 
the  high  joy  of  the  pulpit,  to  starve  on  the  salary's 
dregs,  and  to  indulge  himself  royally  in  a  very  carni- 
val of  unceasing  visitation.  These  overtures  I  had 
had  little  hesitation  in  declining,  for  observation  had 
taught  me  that  the  slave's  place  soon  makes  the 
slave's  spirit,  unless  that  slavery  be  an  indenture 
unto  God,  which  is  but  the  sterner  name  for  liberty. 

Moreover,  curates  (especially  Presbyterian,  which 
implieth  the  greater  perversion)  seemed  to  lack  the 
breath  of  the  uplands  which  the  pulpit  breathes,  and 
too  often  degenerate  into  society  favourites,  whose 

5° 


The  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND        51 

flapping  tails  of  black  may  be  seen  as  these  curates 
ring  at  fashionable  doors,  where  "  five-o'clocks " 
within  await  the  kid-gloved  ministers  of  men  who 
are  supposed  to  be  the  stewards  of  eternal  life.  I 
had  once  overheard  an  enamelled  queen  of  fashion 
declare,  with  much  emotion,  that  their  curate  was  in- 
dispensable to  a  high-class  "at  home,"  and  even 
panegyrize  his  graceful  transportation  of  cups  of  tea, 
however  full. 

Whereupon  I  forever  swore  that  I  would  frizzle 
upon  no  such  heathen  altar ;  I  vowed  to  be  either  a 
minister  or  a  butler — one  thing  or  the  other — but 
never  a  Right  Reverend  Butler,  which  is  a  monster 
and  a  tongue-cheeked  comedy  to  both  God  and  man. 

As  the  minister  of  a  vast  congregation  like  St. 
Cuthbert's,  I  might  on  the  other  hand  have  requested 
an  assistant  who  should  relieve  me  of  the  visiting, 
leaving  me  only  the  duties  of  the  pulpit,  oceanic 
enough  for  any  man.  Indeed,  one  of  the  stalwarts 
had  suggested  this  to  me,  averring  that  I  needed 
more  time  for  my  sermons,  whereat  I  looked  at  him 
sharply;  but  his  face  was  placid  as  a  sea  of  milk, 
which  is  the  way  of  Scotsmen  when  they  mean  to 
score.  But  this  dual  ministry  was  ever  the  object  of 
my  disfavour,  for  he  preaches  best  who  visits  best, 
and  the  weekly  garner  makes  the  richest  grist  for  the 
Sunday  mill.  True  and  tender  visiting  is  the  ser- 


52  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

mon's  fuse,  and  what  God  hath  put  together  no  man 
can  safely  put  asunder. 

One  of  my  first  visits  was  to  the  farmhouse  of 
Donald  M'Phatter,  a  belated  member  of  the  fold,  for 
he  and  his  wife  Elsie  had  not  beshadowed  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  door  for  many  a  year.  This  parochial  policy 
had  been  suggested  to  me  by  the  beadle : 

"  Ye  maun  luik  to  the  driftwood  first — pit  oot  the 
laggin'  log  frae  the  shore,  ye  ken,"  he  said  to  me, 
following  this  up  with  an  exhaustive  narrative  of  the 
raftsman's  life  which  had  once  been  his. 

I  found  Donald  dour  but  deferential,  full-armed 
against  every  appeal  for  his  reform. 

"  I  willna  gang,"  he  exclaimed,  "  till  ony  kirk  that 
pits  oot  the  token l  at  the  sacrament,  and  taks  up  wi' 
they  bit  cairds  they're  usin'  the  noo.  Cairds  at  the 
sacrament !  it's  fair  insultin'  to  the  Almichty." 

I  parried  the  blow  as  best  I  could,  and  was  on  the 
verge  of  winning  in  the  argument  when  he  suddenly 
took  another  tack. 

"  Forbye,  I  hae  dune  ma  duty.  Didna  I  gang 
steady  when  the  Doctor  was  oor  meenister  ?  Ilka 
Sabbath  day  I  gaed  an'  hearkened  till  the  graun"  ser- 
mons twa  oors  at  a  time,  an'  God  grippit  me  thae 
days,  an'  He  hasna  loosened  His  haud  o'  me  yet. 

1 A  small  piece  of  metal  with  the  words  "  This  do  in  remembrance 
of  Me,"  given  in  Scottish  churches,  before  the  Sacrament  of  The 
Supper,  to  those  entitled  to  participate. 


The  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND       53 

Ance  saved,  aye  saved.  That's  ma  doctrine.  Wha 
can  slip  awa  frae  grace,  forbye  it  be  thae  Methody 
buddies  an'  ither  Armenian  fowk,  an'  there  was  na 
ane  o'  them  in  the  parish  in  the  doctor's  day.  The 
fields  was  fine  an'  fu'  o'  wheat  thae  days,  but  there's 
muckle  mustard  noo,  I  tell  ye  that." 

"  But  you  will  surely  admit,  Mr.  M'Phatter,  that 
the  nourishment  of  years  ago  will  not  suffice  for  to- 
day. Yesterday's  dinner  will  not  forestall  the  ne- 
cessity of  the  day  that  follows,"  I  urged,  inwardly 
ashamed  of  the  threadbare  argument. 

He  saw  its  threadbareness  too,  for  he  retorted  — 

"  That's  a  verra  auld  argyment ;  in  fac',  it's  clean 
stala,  if  it's  no'  rotten.  Doctor  Grant  wud  hae  sniffit 
at  it.  And  what's  mair,  it's  no'  an  argyment  ava', 
for  I  hae  mony  a  dinner  o'  the  sermons  that  I  gath- 
ered in  thae  far  back  days.  I  aye  eat  and  sup  off 
that  when  ye  an'  yir  fowk's  fummlin'  wi'  yir  cairds  at 
the  kirk.  Bide  a  meenit." 

He  hurried  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  soon  re- 
turned with  a  sheaf  of  rusty  notes,  clearing  his  throat 
awhile  with  the  sound  of  a  trumpeter  calling  to  the 
fray. 

"  I  wasna  ane  o'  the  sleepin'  kind ;  I  aye  paid  at- 
tention in  the  hoose  o'  God.  I  only  sleepit  ance  an' 
I  cudna  help  it,  for  oor  Jeanie  was  born  that  mornin' 
— an'  that  was  a  work  o'  needcessity.  An'  what's 


54  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

mair,  I  aye  took  notes  o'  the  discoorse,  an'  I  hae 
them  yet. 

"  They's  ma  dinners  noo,  tae  use  yir  word,  minister 
— they's  ma  dinners,  an'  they  hunger  nae  mair  wha 
tak's  them — saxteen  or  seventeen  coorses,  ilka  ane  o' 
them ;  nane  o'  yir  bit  lunches  wi'  napkins  an'  flowers 
and  finger  bowls  like  ye  hae  the  noo,  no'  worth  the 
bit  grace  ye  say  ower  them — they's  nane  o'  yir  teas, 
tastin'  an'  sniffin',  wi'  sweeties  an'  sic  like — they's 
meat,  sir,  strong  meat  for  strong  men,  an'  the  bane's 
in  the  baith  o'  them  like." 

He  stopped,  as  a  cannon  stops  after  it  has  fired, 
the  aroma  of  battle  still  pouring  from  its  lips. 

"  What  are  these  papers  in  your  hand  ?  "  I  asked, 
not  for  information,  but  for  breath.  (You  have  seen 
a  caged  canary  leap  from  its  perch  to  its  swing,  and 
back  again,  when  sorely  pressed.)  He  speedily  closed 
that  door. 

"  They,  sir  ?  Div  ye  no'  ken  what's  they  ?  They's 
Doctor  Grant's  heids  and  pertikklers.  Doctor  Grant's 
heids  and  pertikklers,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  A'  o'  them  but 
ane  is  the  heids  an'  pertikklers  o'  sermons  that  made 
St.  Cuthbert's  ring  like  the  wood  on  an  August  nicht 
when  the  thunder  roams  it.  That  ither  ane  he 
preach't  in  a  graun  city  kirk  wha  soucht  to  get  him, 
and  they  cudna — an'  it  was  croodit  like  the  barn  mou' 
when  harvest's  dune,  an'  I  was  there  masel',  an'  he 


The  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND       55 

kent  me — an'  I'm  the  man  that  held  his  cane  in  ma 
haun  the  time  he  preach't,  I'm  tellin'  ye."  And 
Donald's  withered  face  was  now  aglow  with  such  a 
tenderness  as  only  bygone  years  can  loan  to  age ; 
his  eyes  were  ashine  with  tears,  each  one  the  home  of 
sheeted  days  that  had  come  back  from  the  dead,  and 
his  parted  lips  were  drinking  deep  of  the  mystic  tides 

of  memory. 

****** 

A  rich  mosaic  was  the  visitation  of  this  sterling 
race.  The  lovely  valleys  and  the  picturesque  hills  of 
their  ancestral  sires  I  have  often  roamed  since  then, 
but  never  have  I  seen  the  Scottish  character  in  its 
homely  beauty  as  it  appeared  to  me  in  their  happy 
Canadian  life  among  the  cozy  farmhouses  of  this 
fruitful  countryside.  The  traditions  of  their  native 
land  were  tenderly  cherished  by  them  all,  and  many 
were  the  stories  they  related  of  the  old  days  in  Scot- 
land and  of  the  day  whereon  they  looked  their  last 
upon  the  unforgotten  heather. 

One  of  my  first  visits  was  to  Mrs.  Gavin  Toshack, 
whom  I  found  in  a  reminiscent  mood. 

"  Ay,"  she  said, "  we're  a'  Scotch  aboot  thae  pairts  ; 
an'  God  keep  us  sae.  There's  been  scarce  a  fly  in 
the  ointment,  forbye  Sandy  Trother's  wife,  who  gied 
him,  an'  gied  us  a',  a  heap  o'  tribble ;  but  she  was 
Irish,  ye  ken.  An'  oor  ministers  hae  a'  been  frae 


56  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

Scotland ;  but  we  had  ane  for  mebbe  twa  month  or 
mair — nae  oor  ain  minister,  but  only  a  kin'  o'  evan- 
gelist buddy.  He  was  an  Irish  buddy  tae,  but  there 
were  severals  converted.  That  was  nae  Irish  wark 
whatever,  but  the  grace  o'  God.  We  were  na  lang 
oot  frae  the  auld  country  when  he  cam' ;  I  mind  fine. 
It  was  in  the  year  '37.  We  sailed  frae  Annan  Water 
Foot  in  July,  an'  eight  weeks  or  mair  it  took  us  afore 
we  landit  in  Quebec.  Then  by  canal  and  wagon  till 
we  reach't  New  Jedboro ;  'twas  a  sair,  weary  ride. 
But  the  breath  o'  freedom  an'  o'  promise  was  in  the 
air — an'  we  hae  oor  ain  hame  noo  an'  twa  hunner 
acres  o'  the  finest  land  in  a'  the  country.  An'  we're 
independent  noo,  wi'  eneuch  for  a  bite  an'  a  sup  till 
we  hunger  nae  mair  nor  thirst  ony  mair.  An'  oor 
bairnies  is  a'  daein'  fine  :  Jamie's  a  doctor  i'  Chicago  ; 
an'  oor  Jeanie's  mairrit  on  Allan  Sutherland,  him  as 
will  be  the  new  Reeve  o'  the  coonty ;  an'  Chairlie  has 
a  ranch  i'  Alberta  like  the  Duke  o'  Roxburgh's  estate ; 
an'  Willie '11  hae  oor  ain  land  here,  when  we  sleep 
aneath  it. 

"  I  aften  sit  an'  think  we  micht  hae  been  aye 
herdin'  sheep  on  the  Dumfries  hills,  wi'  scarce  eneuch 
to  eat,  wi'  this  man  '  my  Laird '  an'  yon  man  '  yir 
Grace '  an'  oor  ain  bairns  little  mair  nor  slaves.  The 
duke  we  knelt  doon  afore  in  Scotland  aften  paid  mair 
for  a  racin'  filly  nor  we  paid  for  a'  this  bonnie  land 


The  FIRST  PARISH  ROUND        57 

we  ca'  oor  ain  the  day.  Canada's  nae  sae  guid  for 
earls  an'  lairds,  but  it's  graun'  for  puir  honest  fowk. 
An'  what's  mair,"  continued  Mrs.  Gavin,  "  we  didna 
hae  the  preachin'  i'  the  auld  country  we  hae  in  Can- 
ada— leastwise,  no'  as  graun'  as  we  used  to  hae  i'  the 
time  o'  Doctor  Grant.  Div  ye  ken,  sir,  the  grandest 
thing  I  ever  heard  come  oot  o'  his  mooth  ?  No  ? 
Weel,  it  was  this.  He  aye  preach't  fearfu'  lang,  as 
ye've  nae  doot  heard,  an'  at  times  the  men  fowk  wad 
weary  an'  gang  oot,  some  to  tak'  a  reek  wi'  their 
pipes  an'  mair  to  gang  ower  the  way  an'  hae  a  drap 
juist  to  liven  the  concludin'  heids  o'  the  discoorse 
Jfor  they  aye  steppit  back) ;  but  the  Doctor  didna 
seem  to  understaun'.  Weel,  ae  day  some  o'  them  was 
stampin'  doon  the  aisle,  an'  the  Doctor,  he  juist  stop- 
pit  an'  sat  doon,  an'  then  he  says, '  Ma  freens,  we'll 
bide  a  wee  till  the  chaff  blaws  awa'.'  Losh,  hoo  they 
drappit  whaur  they  stood  !  There  was  nae  mair  gaun 
oot  that  day,  I  tell  ye,  nor  mony  a  day.  But  mind 
ye,  'twas  fearsome  the  time  atween  when  he  sat  doon 
in  the  pulpit  an'  when  he  speakit  oot  like  I  telt  ye ; 
it  was  clean  fearsome." 


VII 
"  The  CHILD  of  The  REGIMENT" 

MY  labours  in  St.  Cuthbert's  had  covered 
but   a   few  fleeting  years  (oh,  relentless 
ticking  of  the  clock !  at  once  the  harbin- 
ger and  the  echo  of  eternity),  when  there  came  into 
our   lives    life's   greatest  earthly    joy.     Serene    and 
peaceful  our  lives  had  been,  every  hour  garlanded 
with  love  and  every  year  festooned  by  the  Hand  Un- 
seen. 

Trials  and  difficulties  there  had  been  indeed,  but 
they  were  as  billows  which  carried  in  their  secret 
bosom  the  greeting  of  the  harbour  and  the  shore. 
Even  the  roots  of  sorrow  had  been  moistened  by  the 
far-off  wells  of  joy.  To  many  a  guest  of  God,  dis- 
guised in  the  habiliments  of  gloom,  we  had  turned  a 
frowning  face  and  had  bidden  such  begone.  But 
such  guests  heeded  not,  pressing  relentlessly  in  upon 
our  trembling  hearth,  when  lo !  the  passing  days  re- 
vealed their  mission;  we  saw  the  face  hidden  be- 
neath the  sombre  hood,  and  prayed  the  new-discov- 
ered guest  to  abide  with  us  unto  the  end.  For  God 
loveth  the  masquerade,  and  doth  use  it  everywhere. 

58 


"The  CHILD  of  The  REGIMENT"    59 

The  way  to  hell  appeareth  glorious  oftentimes,  but 
the  pathway  unto  life  is  robed  in  shadows  and  its 
sign-post  is  the  cross — which  things  are  a  masquerade 
and  to  be  witnessed  every  day ;  for  in  one  single  day 
all  God's  great  drama  is  rehearsed  in  miniature. 

Our  manse  was  a  pleasant  place,  and  its  site  had 
been  selected  by  some  one  with  the  nursery-heart. 
Spacious  and  genial  was  the  old  homely  house,  with 
its  impartial  square.  Rooms  there  were,  and  halls, 
waiting  to  echo  back  some  voice  uncoarsened  by  the 
clang  of  time  and  uncorroded  by  the  salt  of  tears. 
Rich  terraces  flowed  in  velvet  waves  down  to  the 
waiting  river,  murmuring  its  trysting  joy;  a  full- 
robed  choir  of  oak  and  elm  and  maple  kept  their 
eternal  places  in  a  grander  loft  than  man  could  build 
them,  while  pine  and  spruce  and  cedar,  disrobing 
never,  but  snatching  their  bridal  garments  from  the 
winter  storm,  swelled  the  sylvan  harmony. 

Here  came  the  crocuses  and  the  snowdrops,  trem- 
bling like  the  waifs  of  winter,  and  hither  came  the 
violet  and  the  dandelion  to  reassure  these  daring 
pioneers ;  later  on,  the  pansy  and  the  rose  utterly 
convinced  them  that  they  had  not  lost  their  way,  but 
had  been  guided  by  the  pilgrims'  Friend. 

But  no  child's  voice  had  waked  these  sombre 
echoes,  no  child's  gentle  feet  had  pressed  this  velvet 
sward;  no  radiant  shadow  such  as  childhood  alone 


60  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

can  cast  had  flitted  here  and  there  beneath  these 
lonely  trees,  nor  had  these  flowers  felt  their  life's 
great  and  only  thrill  in  the  touch  of  a  baby's  dimpled 
hand.  But  that  golden  door  at  last  swung  gently 
open.  That  hour  of  ecstasy  and  anguish  brought  us 
life's  crown  and  joy,  and  the  hills  of  time,  erstwhile 
green  and  beautiful,  were  now  radiant  with  a  light 
kindled  from  afar. 

St.  Cuthbert's  rejoiced  exceedingly  when  our  little 
Margaret  was  given  unto  us,  but  we  knew  it  not 
at  first,  for  Scotch  joy  is  a  deep  and  silent  thing, 
a  fermentation  at  the  centre  rather  than  an  effer- 
vescence at  the  surface.  For  our  Margaret  was  as 
one  born  out  of  due  time,  the  first  child  whose  infant 
cry  had  awakened  the  echoes  of  their  ancient  manse, 
though  seventy  long  years  had  flown  since  their  first 
minister  had  come  among  them.  Thus  she  became 
the  child  of  the  regiment  and  they  silently  exulted. 
Jubilant,  one  hour  after  this  new  star  had  swung  into 
the  firmament,  I  hoisted  the  Union  Jack  to  the  top- 
most notch  of  our  towering  flag-pole,  and  never  has 
it  flaunted  its  triumph  more  jubilantly  since. 

The  beadle  reported  to  me  afterwards  that  the 
other  churches  were  mightily  jealous  of  our  late 
autumn  bloom,  and  one  of  their  devotees,  an  Episco- 
palian, had  asked  him  sneeringly  — 

"  What's  that  flag  doing  there  ?  " 


"The  CHILD  of  The  REGIMENT"    61 

"  It's  blawin'  i'  the  wind,"  retorted  my  diplomatic 
beadle. 

"  It's  nothing  to  be  so  joyful  over,"  urged  the 
Episcopalian  brother. 

"  It's  mair  nor  ever  happened  in  yon  kirk  o'  yours ; 
an'  it's  mair  nor  could  happen  to  the  Pope  o'  Rome, 
wha's  a  true  freen  o'  yours,  I'm  jalousin',"  snorted  my 
beadle  back  triumphantly ;  for  William  was  unchari- 
table, and  despaired  of  all  ritualists,  the  iron  of  cove- 
nanting protest  running  hot  within  his  blood. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  swords  that  flashed  above 
our  Margaret's  cradle ;  for  a  Methodist  mother  in 
Israel,  hopeful  of  a  sympathetic  response  from  Elsie 
M'Phatter  (the  non-churchgoing  one),  ventured  the 
comment  that  similar  events  in  her  own  brilliant 
maternal  record  had  provoked  no  unseemly  joy;  to 
which  Elsie  responded  tartly  — 

"  I  ken  that  fine,  and  it's  very  nat'ral,  for  ye've 
had  mair  nor  maist ;  but  gin  ye  hadna  had  ane  for 
a  maitter  o'  seventy  year  or  mair,  like  us,  wad  ye  no' 
hae  been  clean  daft  aboot  it  ? "  and  the  field  there- 
after was  Elsie's  own. 


The  Sabbath  morning  after  Margaret's  dawn  St. 
Cuthbert's  was  full  to  overflowing,  as  seemed  to  be 
every  heart,  especially  every  aged  heart,  finding  its 


62  57.    CUTHBERT'S 

morning  anew  in  the  life  of  a  little  child.  For  the 
morning  and  the  evening  are  wondrously  alike.  In 
summer  especially,  the  sun-bathed  mountains,  the 
pendant  dewdrop,  the  melodious  silences — all  these 
belong  so  much  to  both  alike  that  I  find  it  hard 
to  distinguish  the  matins  and  the  vespers  of  God's 
cathedral  days. 

My  voice  trembled  just  a  little  as  I  gave  out  the 
psalm  — 

"  Such  pity  as  a  father  hath 
Unto  his  children  dear," 

but  we  sang  it  to  the  tune  of  "  Dunfermline,"  and 
soon  I  was  borne  out  to  sea  upon  its  far-flung  bil- 
lows ;  for  of  a  truth  these  old  Scottish  tunes  have  the 
swing  of  eternity  in  them,  and  seem  to  grandly  over- 
lap the  bourne  of  time  and  space.  And  when  we 
prayed  the  only  liturgy  which  Presbyterians  will  own, 
I  could  not  forbear  to  say  "  Our  Father  "  twice,  and 
lo !  a  strange  thing  happened  unto  me.  For  a  great 
light  seemed  to  shine  upon  the  words,  and  that  little 
helpless  life  at  home  within  the  manse,  and  its  thrice- 
blessed  cry,  and  its  yearning  look  of  wonder,  and  its 
hand  whose  only  prowess  was  to  lie  in  some  stronger 
hand  of  love — all  these  became  a  commentary,  illus- 
trating God,  and  in  their  cordial  light  I  beheld  Him 
as  mother,  or  professor,  or  minister  had  never  shown 


"The  CHILD  of  The  REGIMENT"    63 

Him  to  me  before,  bending  over  the  souls  of  men, 
otherwise  orphaned  evermore.  That  vision  has 
tarried  with  me  ever  since,  and  my  people  have  been 
the  better  of  it ;  for  he  alone  can  caress  his  people's 
souls  who  has  felt  the  caress  of  His  father's  love. 
God's  tenderness  is  the  great  contagion  for  the  heal- 
ing of  life's  long  disease. 


VIII 

"A  NEW  FOOT  on    The  FLOOR" 

WHEN  our  daughter  (are  there  any  two  other 
words  so  well-wed  as  these  ?  What  music 
their  union  makes ! )  was  only  about  ten 
years  old,  her  mother,  which  is  my  wife  writ  large  and 
heavenly,  and  I  were  taking  tea  at  Inglewood,  which 
my  long-suffering  readers  will  remember  as  the  home 
which  first  welcomed  me  to  New  Jedboro  and  the  res- 
idence of  Mr.  Michael  Blake.  When  our  meal  was 
over,  Mr.  Blake  and  I  were  enjoying  a  quiet  game  of 
billiards,  which  was  a  game  I  loved.  But  I  may 
have  more  to  say  about  this  later  on,  for  so  had  some 
of  my  pious  people,  though  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  they  objected  not  so  much  because  they  thought 
the  game  was  wrong  as  because  they  feared  I  was  en- 
joying it.  For,  to  some  truly  good  Scotch  folk  the 
measure  of  enjoyableness  is  the  measure  of  sin,  and  a 
thing  needeth  no  greater  fault  than  to  be  guilty  of 
deliciousness.  But  the  converse  of  this  they  also 
hold  as  true,  namely,  that  what  maketh  miserable  is 
of  God,  and  to  be  wretched  is  to  be  pious  at  the 
heart.  For  which  reason,  I  have  observed  often- 

64 


"A  NEW  FOOT  on  The  FLOOR"      65 

times,  they  deem  that  to  be  a  truly  well-spent 
Sabbath  day  which  had  banished  all  possible  happi- 
ness from  their  children's  lives,  bringing  them  to  its 
close  limp  and  cramped  and  sore,  but  catechism-full 
and  with  a  good  mark  in  the  book  of  life  for  every 
weary  hour. 

Was  it  Johnson  who  ventured  the  opinion  that  the 
Puritans  put  bear-baiting  under  the  ban,  not  because 
it  was  painful  to  the  bears  but  because  it  was 
pleasant  to  the  people  ?  Whether  it  was  or  no,  I 
shall  not  discuss  it.  Neither  shall  I  discuss  the 
ethics  of  billiards,  unless  it  be  to  say  this  much,  that 
if  there  be  games  in  heaven,  I  do  not  doubt  it  will 
have  an  honoured  place,  for  it  is  an  ivory  game  and 
truthful,  abhorring  vagrant  luck  and  scoring  only  by 
eternal  laws  which  Euclid  made  his  own.  And  I 
make  no  doubt  that  many  a  hand  hath  plied  the 
billiard  cue  which  long  ere  this  hath  touched  with  its 
finger-tips  the  ivory  gates  and  golden. 

But  to  return.  We  were  in  the  very  midst  of  our 
game,  of  which  I  remember  very  little,  often  and 
often  though  I  have  tried  to  recall  every  feature  of 
that  eventful  night.  But  I  do  recall  that  we  spoke 
about  our  Margaret,  and  there  was  a  deep  strain  of 
wistful  envy  in  Mr.  Blake's  voice.  I  remember  well 
his  saying  that  God's  richest  earthly  gift  was  that  of 
wife  and  child  and  hearth. 


66  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  Though  I  speak,"  he  added  almost  bitterly,  "  as  I 
might  speak  of  distant  stars,  for  I  have  no  one  of  the 
three,"  and  his  lips  closed  tightly  while  he  drove  his 
ball  with  a  savage  hand. 

"  You  have  not  wife  or  child,"  I  said,  "  but  no 
man  who  has  been  sheltered  by  your  friendship  can 
agree  with  you  about  your  hearth.  It  has  warmed 
my  heart  too  many  times  when  that  heart  was  cold." 

"  There  is  no  hearth  where  there  is  neither  wife 
nor  child,"  he  answered  almost  passionately. 
"  Hearths  are  not  built  with  hands.  Do  you  not 
know,  sir,  that  if  a  man  would  have  a  fireside  he 
must  begin  to  kindle  it  when  youth  is  still  throbbing 
in  his  heart  ?  From  boyhood  up  he  is  preparing  it, 
or  else  he  is  quenching  it  in  darkness.  Do  you 
know,  sir,  if  I  were  a  preacher  I  would  burn  that 
into  young  men's  hearts  till  they  would  feel  that 
heaven  or  hell  were  all  bound  up  with  how  they 
reverence  or  despise  their  future  fireside.  I  would 
tell  them  that  no  man  can  lay  his  hearth  in  ashes  in 
the  hot  days  of  youth,  and  then  build  it  up  again  in 
the  rainy  days  of  age. 

"  I  would  tell  every  wastrel,  and  every  man  who  is 
rehearsing  hell  with  his  youthful  follies,  that  he  can- 
not eat  his  cake  and  have  it.  For  hearth  and  wife 
and  child  are  not  for  him.  I  would  tell  him  that  he 
cannot  breed  a  cancer  in  his  heart  while  he  is  young 


"A  NEW  FOOT:  on  The  FLOOR"      67 

and  cure  it  with  some  pious  perfume  brewed  by  the 
hand  of  age.  I  would  tell  them  that  till  my  lips 
blistered,  and  then  they  should  hear  of  the  grace  of 
God  till  those  same  lips  were  rosy  with  its  healing." 

Amazed,  I  stood  and  gazed  at  him,  for  there  was  a 
fearful  fascination  in  his  face.  The  face  of  a  saint 
it  was,  with  that  warlike  peace  which  only  a  battling 
and  victorious  life  can  give,  but  it  had  for  the  time 
the  half-hunted  look  of  one  who  trembles  at  the 
sound  of  footsteps  he  had  hoped  were  forever  still, 
of  one  whose  soul  was  overstormed  by  surging  waves 
of  memory.  There  is  sometimes  a  dread  ghastliness 
in  the  thought  that  out  of  the  abundance  of  a  man's 
heart  his  mouth  is  speaking,  though  he  declares  it 
not.  It  is  like  the  procession  of  a  naked  soul ;  or,  to 
change  the  figure,  it  is  like  beholding  a  man  unearth 
some  very  corpse  he  had  long  sought  to  hide. 

It  was  his  turn  to  play — ah  me  !  the  grim  variety 
of  life — and  his  ball  failed  but  narrowly  of  a  delicate 
ambition. 

"  If  I  could  but  have  it  back  and  play  it  over,"  I 
heard  him  rather  sigh  than  say,  whereat  I  bethought 
myself  of  the  high  allegory  of  a  game. 

Musing  still,  I  stood  apart,  gazing  as  one  gazes  at 
a  fire,  which  in  very  truth  I  was. 

"  It  is  your  shot,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  as  passion- 
less as  when  I  first  heard  it  years  before. 


68  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

My  ball  had  but  left  my  cue  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  servant  said  — 

"  There's  a  young  man  doon  the  stair,  sir,  and  he 
says  he  wants  to  speak  wi'  the  minister." 

I  descended,  hearing  as  I  went  a  rattling  fusilade 
of  ivory,  which  I  knew  was  the  echo  of  a  soul's 
thunder-storm. 

****** 

How  often  do  we  meet  new  faces,  little  recking  their 
relation  to  coming  years !  Yet  many  an  unfading 
light  and  many  an  incurable  eclipse  has  come  with  a 
transient  meeting  such  as  this !  How  many  a 
woman  of  Samaria  goes  to  draw  water  from  the 
well,  and  sees — the  Lord !  For  I  met  only  a  boy,  or 
better,  a  laddie — boyhood-breathing  word  !  — about 
sixteen  years  of  age,  openly  poor  but  pathetically 
decent.  His  clothes  were  coarse  and  cheap  and  even 
darned,  bearing  here  and  there  the  signatures  of 
poverty  and  motherhood. 

I  advanced  and  took  his  hand ;  for  that  is  an  easy 
masonry,  and  its  exercise  need  never  be  regretted 
even  if  it  never  be  repeated.  My  wife  once  spent  a 
plaintive  day  because  she  had  wasted  a  hand-shake 
upon  a  caller  whom  she  took  to  be  an  applicant  for 
matrimony,  whose  emoluments  were  hers,  but  who 
turned  out  to  be  an  agent  for  Smith's  Dictionary  of 


"A  NEW  FOOT  on   The  FLOOR"      69 

the  Bible,  whose  emoluments  were  his  own.  Never- 
theless  I  have  always  held  that  no  true  hand-shake  is 
unrecorded  in  the  book  of  life. 

"  And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  my  lad?"  I  said. 

"  I  dinna  ken,  sir,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice  that 
suggested  a  sea  voyage,  for  it  was  redolent  of  what 
lies  only  beyond  the  sea. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Angus  Strachan,  sir,  and  I  come  frae  Ettrick,  and 
I  hae  my  lines  frae  the  minister  o'  the  Free  Kirk." 

"  And  when  did  you  land,  Mr.  Strachan  ?  " 

"  Ca'  me  Angus,  sir,  if  ye  please.  Naebody  has 
ca'd  me  by  that  name  sin'  my  mither  pairted  wi'  me 
at  the  stage  coach  road,  and  she  was  fair  chokit  wi' 
cryin',  and  when  I  cudna  see  her  mair  for  the  bush 
aboon  the  burn,  I  could  aye  hear  her  bleatin'  like  a 
lamb — an'  it  was  the  gloamin'.  An'  I  can  fair  hear 
her  yet.  Will  ye  no'  ca'  me  Angus  ?  " 

Accursed  be  the  heart  which  has  no  opening  door 
for  the  immigrant's  weary  feet,  and  thrice  accursed 
be  the  heart  which  remembers  strangerhood  against 
some  mother's  homeless  boy.  Such  malediction, 
thank  God,  my  soul  has  never  won,  for  if  there  be 
one  sight  which  more  than  another  fills  me  with 
hopeful  pity,  it  is  the  spectacle  of  some  peasant  lad 
making  the  great  venture  of  an  untried  shore,  press- 
ing in  to  those  who  were  also  foreigners  one  far-back 


70  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

cheerless  day,  and  asking  if  this  Western  land  may 
harbour  still  another  exile  from  the  poverty  he  seeks 
to  flee.  Especially  is  this  true  of  Scottish  laddies ; 
for  upon  their  faces  seems  to  be  written :  "  I  ask  for 
but  a  chance  such  as  thou  hadst  thyself,"  which  was 
the  plea  of  Tom  Carlyle  when  he  first  knocked  at 
London's  mighty  door. 

So  I  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  my  heart  flowed 
through  my  voice  as  I  said  again  — 

"  When  did  you  land,  Angus  lad  ?  and  tell  me  all 
about  yourself.  I  have  heard  that  mother's  cry  be- 
fore." For  I  was  thinking  of  my  own  mother's  part- 
ing blessing,  save  that  hers  was  wondrously  exultant 
ds  becometh  one  who  calls  back  from  the  unseen 
Chariot  of  God. 

"  I  landed  yesterday  at  Montreal,  and  I  cam'  ower 
on  the  Lake  Ontario.  And  I  hae  but  little  to  tell, 
and  it  wunna  tak'  me  lang.  Ma  mither  weaves  in 
Ettrick,  and  I  herded  sheep  upon  the  hills  sin'  I  was 
able.  But  I  was  aye  hame  at  nicht,  and  she  aye 
keepit  a  licht  in  the  window  when  the  nicht  was  dark 
and  her  shadow  fell  upon  it,  for  she  aye  cam'  oot  to 
meet  me  when  she  heard  me  lilt  the  sang.  And  she 
lilted  tae,  and  we  baith  sang  it  thegither  till  we  met, 
and  then  we  gaed  ben  thegither  and  gaed  na  mair 
oot  till  the  mirk  was  by." 

I  detected  the  serious  and  lofty  figure  in  his  words, 


"A  NEW  FOOT  on  The  FLOOR"      71 

and  the  vision  of  Scotland's  lowly  altars  and  thatched 
cathedrals  rose  before  me.  No  man  could  mistake 
the  ritual  of  which  that  strain  was  bred. 

"  And  why  came  you  here,  Angus  ?  " 

"  I  cam'  here,"  he  answered,  "  to  better  masel'.  I 
heard  tell  o'  Canada  sin'  I  was  a  bairn,  and  they  a' 
spak'  it  fair  for  a  land  whaur  an  honest  man  micht 
mak'  an  honest  leevin' — and  mair  tae,"  he  added,  true 
to  the  Scotch  afterthought  of  an  extra. 

"  And  what  line  do  you  propose  to  follow  ?  What 
work  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

"  Ilka  line  that's  straight,  an'  ony  wark  that  willna 
soil  the  soul  even  gin  it  may  soil  the  hands,"  he 
answered  quickly. 

My  soul  went  out  to  the  lad,  for  I  saw  that  his 
heart's  roots  were  deep  in  the  best  heart-soil  the 
world  hath  known,  and  that  the  Atlantic's  billows 
had  not  quenched  the  light  of  his  mother's  cottage 
fire. 

"Your  father  is  dead,  is  he,  Angus?"  was  the 
next  step  in  my  examination  for  discovery,  as  the 
lawyers  say. 

"  No,  he's  no'  deid,  he's  alive,"  replied  the  lad,  with 
the  exactitude  which  marks  his  race ;  "  but  I  dinna 
care  to  speak  aboot  him." 

"  Very  well,  very  well,  boy,"  I  rejoined  hastily ; 
"  spends  his  time  and  his  money  and  your  mother's 


72  57'.   CUTHBERT'S 

money,  when  he  can  get  it,  at  the  Red  Cow,  or  the 
Cock  and  Hens,  a  drunken  wastrel  and  cruel  too ;  for 
I  have  been  enough  in  Scotland  to  know  that  such 
hens  lay  deadly  eggs  and  such  red  cows'  milk  is  red 
with  blood."  All  this  latter  part,  of  course,  I  said  to 
myself,  but  no  word  of  it  to  the  lad  before  me,  for 
no  honest  youth  can  bear  any  lips  to  miscall  his  father 
save  his  own. 

"  You  will  come  to  the  manse  with  us  and  stay 
the  night ;  it  is  too  late  to  seek  other  lodging  now." 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  sir,  but  I  hae  a  wee  pickle 
siller  in  my  pocket,"  he  replied,  with  modest  inde- 
pendence. I  verily  believe  that  in  heaven  all  Scots- 
men (and  even  Scotch  Freemasons)  will  be  found  wi' 
a  wee  pickle  siller  in  their  pockets  when  they  receive 
that  great  degree. 

But  I  insisted,  and  I  won ;  for  he  who  wages  the 
campaign  of  hospitality  hath  God  for  his  ally,  and 
no  heart  can  finally  resist  that  siege. 


IX 
"ANGELS  UNAWARES" 

I  PRESENTED  him  to  my  wife  and  to  my  host, 
whose  cordiality  was  worthy  of  his  wealth  and 
his  success.     Perhaps   he  was   thinking  of  an 
hour  like  unto  this  when,  so  many  long  years  before, 
he  too  had  reached  New  Jedboro  by  night,  friendless 
and  poor,  also  craving  work,  beginning  that  steady 
climb  which  had  brought  him  to  the  dizzy  heights  of 
wealth  and  influence. 

For  memories  of  poverty,  like  poor  relations, 
should  not  be  thrust  out  at  wealth's  back  gate,  but 
should  have  a  choice  room  in  the  mansion  at  whose 
door  the  sated  heart  will  often  knock,  seeking  rest. 

My  wife  has  frequently  told  me  that  she  liked 
Angus  from  the  start  because  he  seemed  so  robed  in 
health  and  draped  in  a  kind  of  pathetic  modesty,  with 
eyes  whose  colour  she  was  certain  would  not  fade. 
How  women  do  love  the  metaphors  of  millinery ! 
How  better  than  the  sage  of  Chelsea  they  understand 
the  philosophy  of  clothes  !  But  she  also  added  that 
she  was  charmed  by  the  way  he  spoke  his  mother's 
name,  for  in  his  tone  she  caught  the  flavour  of  a 
quick  caress  ;  and  woman  is  more  facile  far  than  man 

73 


74  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

in  her  translation  of  these  Hebraic  breathings.  Be- 
sides all  this,  he  held  the  gate  open  as  she  passed 
through  into  our  manse  estate ;  she  still  remarks  that 
this  was  a  little  thing,  but  contends  that  he  did  it  in 
a  great  way. 

We  showed  the  tired  stranger  to  his  room.  Dis- 
tinguished guests  we  have  had  beneath  the  roof  of 
St.  Cuthbert's  manse.  We  once  had  Major  Pond, 
the  great  cicerone  of  great  lecturers  ;  he  had  brought 
Ian  Maclaren  to  our  town,  who  in  turn  brought  the 
spring  to  all  of  us,  beguiling  moisture  even  from 
long-sullen  clouds. 

He  had  stayed  with  Mr.  Blake,  which  was  but  fair, 
for  these  are  wealth's  real  prerogatives ;  but  the 
genial  Major  stayed  with  us.  We  were  greatly 
charmed,  for  he  charmed  us  till  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  and  my  wife,  fearful  that  she  might 
stampede  him  to  his  bed,  rose  at  intervals  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  geranium  window  when  she  had  to  yawn. 
But  it  was  the  clock  and  not  the  Major  that  provoked 
these  mild  convulsions.  He  rehearsed  to  us  his  glo- 
rious achievements  with  his  "stars."  Some  few 
plaints  he  had,  wherein  he  "  wept  o'er  his  wounds," 
but  almost  all  his  tales  were  "  tales  of  valour  done," 
He  told  the  number  of  his  "  stars,"  vividly  described 
how  he  held  them  in  his  right  hand,  pointed  out  to 
us  how  one  "  star  "  differeth  from  another  "  star  "  in 


"ANGELS  UNAWARES"  75 

glory,  and  went  to  bed  at  last  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  gilded  the  Pleiades,  brushed  up  Castor  and 
Pollux,  and  house-cleaned  the  heavens  generally. 

Stanley,  Farrar,  Beecher,  and  a  score  of  others 
filtered  through  him  as  he  sat  by  our  humble  fire, 
turning  his  telescope  this  way  and  that  as  a  sports- 
man turns  his  gun,  while  the  very  clock  ticked  slow 
to  listen.  My  wife  became  quite  confused,  probably 
sun-struck,  for  she  has  since  affirmed  that  the  Major 
claimed  to  have  been  present  at  the  birth  of  every 
one  of  these  famous  men  on  whom  he  early  resolved 
to  confer  immortality.  My  recollection  of  his  night's 
autobiography  is  rather  that  of  a  lane  of  dazzling 
Jight,  in  which  there  stood  now  one  and  now  another 
giant,  but  all  alike  clinging  to  the  Major's  hand. 

But  thjs  does  not  exhaust  our  list  of  the  famous 
men  whose  ponderous  heads  have  pressed  the  pillow 
whereon  the  exiled  Angus  now  laid  his  own  to  rest. 
For  we  once  had  the  Moderator.  The  Moderator  of 
what?  some  unsophisticated  gentile  will  wish  to 
know.  Of  the  General  Assembly,  of  course,  for  that 
is  the  Westminster  Assembly  of  Divines  in  recurring 
resurrection,  and  it  hath  its  unadjourning  court  in 
heaven,  as  the  ambushed  correspondent  of  the  He- 
brews doth  inform  us.  Which  proves,  my  precentor 
tells  me,  that  the  New  Jerusalem  is  a  Presbyterian 
city  and  singeth  nothing  but  the  psalms. 


76  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

The  Moderator,  as  I  have  already  said,  abode  with 
us  over  night,  and  we  almost  begrudged  the  sleeping 
hours,  for,  if  you  will  waste  sleep  upon  a  Moderator, 
let  it  be  when  he  is  preaching  and  not  when  he  is 
filling  your  house  with  dignity  and  smoke.  For  the 
Moderator  loved  his  pipe,  and  so  did  I,  and  together 
we  revelled  in  those  clouds  before  which  all  other 
clouds  retreat.  What  a  great  leveller  is  that  demo- 
crat, tobacco.  For  while  we  smoked  we  were  both 
moderators,  and  even  an  Assembly  clerk  could  not 
have  told  which  was  which.  Twice,  too,  the  Moder- 
ator filled  from  my  pouch,  with  no  air  of  patronage, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  it  of  him.  When  he  went  to 
his  bed,  still  redolent  of  Virginia,  he  asked  me  for  a 
little  soda  water,  very  little,  he  said  emphatically.  I 
brought  it  to  him,  and  passing  by  his  door  ,a  moment 
later,  I  heard  a  low  gurgling  sound  like  that  of  an 
infant  brook,  then  silence,  then  an  honest  smack — 
soon  after  there  emerged  a  festive  flavour,  a  healing 
aroma,  sweetly  distilling.  As  I  went  back  to  our 
room,  I  said  to  my  wife, "  What  a  fine  spirit  a  Moder- 
ator can  shed  through  a  house,"  in  which  opinion 
she  agreed,  though  she  knew  not  what  I  said.  I  was 
all  but  asleep  when  she  aroused  me  with  — 

"  Tom,  why  is  a  Moderator  called  a  Moderator  ?  " 
"  Because  he  takes   it   moderately,   dear,"  I   an- 
swered, being  only  in  the  twilight  of  intelligence. 


"ANGELS    UNAWARES"  77 

"  Takes  what,  Tom  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  His  honours,  sweetheart — go  to  sleep." 

But  although  we  have  had  great  guests  like  these, 
I  do  not  know  that  I  was  ever  more  glad  with  the 
thought  of  a  sleeping  stranger  than  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  this  homeless  lad  was  beneath  our  roof 
that  night.  For  he  who  homes  the  honest  poor  has 
borrowed  the  guests  of  God,  and  a  mother's  wander- 
ing son  is  His  peculiar  care. 

I  knew  that  the  great  Executor  of  all  praying 
mothers  leaves  them  not  long  indebted  to  any  man ; 
He  Himself  shall  speak  with  their  creditors  in  the 
gate. 


X 

My   PIOUS  PROFLIGATE 

MY  wandering  but  faithful  pen,  whose  every 
child,  though  homely,  is  its  legitimate 
own,  must  now  forsake  Angus  and  his 
fortunes  for  a  season.  It  shall  again  return  to  him, 
if  it  be  spared.  For  the  good  folk  of  St.  Cuthbert's 
have  taught  me  to  insert  this  phrase  at  every  season- 
able opening — indeed,  they  deem  it  fitting  for  every 
season,  and  the  very  first  marriage  in  New  Jedboro 
at  which  I  officiated  afforded  a  vivid  proof  of  this. 

The  young  couple  were  just  emerging  from  the 
heavenly  operation,  still  somewhat  under  the  celes- 
tial chloroform,  when  Ronald  M'Gregor  admon- 
ished them.  His  admonition  was  after  a  fashion 
almost  ministerial,  for  Ronald  had  once  culled  him- 
self from  out  the  common  herd  as  meant  for  a  min- 
ister, and  had  abandoned  his  pursuit  only  when  he 
found  that  he  had  every  qualification  except  the  gifts. 

"  Ye  maun  bear  in  mind,"  he  said,  "  that  ye're  nae 
mair  twa,  but  ae  flesh ;  an'  ye'll  bide  wi'  ane  anither 
till  deith  shall  ye  pairt — that  is,  gin  ye're  spared." 

Meantime,  this  friendly  pen  must  record  this  news 
of  Angus,  that  the  very  morning  he  left  St.  Cuth- 

78 


My  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE  79 

bert's  manse  he  entered  upon  his  apprentice  term  in 
the  great  iron  manufactory  of  which  Mr.  Blake  was 
the  head  and  the  propelling  power ;  for  behind  every 
engine  is  the  ingenuity,  not  of  many  men,  but  of 
one. 

And  leaving  him  there  to  ply  his  fortune  and  to 
confront  that  unseen  antagonist  against  whom  every 
ambitious  man  plays  move  and  move  about,  I  betake 
myself  again  to  the  records  of  St.  Cuthbert's. 

Yet  I  find  it  hard  to  dismiss  the  lad,  for  his  is  a  be- 
setting face,  and  besides,  it  stubbornly  appears  above 
the  main  current  of  all  the  story  I  have  yet  to  tell. 

My  fortunes  with  these  strange  Scotch  folk  must 
be  recorded,  and  chief  among  my  handiwork  I  think 
of  Geordie  Lorimer.  For  he  was  a  typical  Scot,  and 
supremely  so  in  this,  that  he  could  be  both  very  re- 
ligious and  very  bad.  Of  which  the  remarkable  thing 
lies  here,  that  he  was  both  of  these  at  one  and  the 
self-same  time. 

Now,  although  I  am  an  Irishman,  and  boast  the 
most  romantic  blood  of  time,  yet  must  I  frankly 
admit  that  few  countrymen  of  mine  have  such 
facility.  Many  of  them  there  are  who  could  be 
religious,  and  more  who  could  be  bad,  with  spon- 
taneous ease,  but  few  there  be  who  know  how  to 
be  both  at  once.  But  Geordie  did.  He  was  a  prof- 
ligate, but  a  pious  profligate ;  a  terror  he  was,  but  he 


8o  S7.   CUTHBERT'S 

was  a  holy  terror.  Mind  you  well,  I  do  not  mean  to 
impugn  Geordie's  sincerity  in  the  last  appeal ;  not  for 
one  moment,  for  I  believe  implicitly  that  Geordie,  in 
the  very  heart  of  him,  meant  to  do  well.  Indeed,  I 
will  go  further,  and  say  that  in  his  very  soul  he  wished 
to  be  closer  to  God ;  for  he  could  not  well  help  that 
wish — it  was  his  inseparable  heritage  from  a  saintly 
father,  long  a  beloved  elder  in  St.  Cuthbert's,  whose 
sacred  suit  of  "  blacks  "  Geordie  had  inherited,  himself 
wearing  them  to  the  sacrament  till  the  session  denied 
him  his  token,  and  shut  him  out,  blacks  and  all. 
The  memory  of  his  mother's  life  was  still  fragrant  to 
hundreds,  fresh  and  dewy  in  love's  unwithering 
morn ;  upon  the  tide  of  prayer  had  Geordie's  infant 
life  been  launched,  and  its  gentle  waves,  faint  but 
palpable,  still  sought  to  lave  his  soul. 

How  many  a  Northern  island-life,  bleak  and  wild, 
is  redeemed  from  utter  destruction  by  that  great  gulf- 
stream,  the  prayers  of  a  mother  who  was  in  league 
with  God !  Thus  it  came  about  that  Geordie 
Lorimer's  life  was  a  muddy  stream,  still  tinged  with 
the  crystal  waters  of  its  hill-born  spring.  He  had 
made  the  ghastly  find,  that  when  he  would  do  good, 
evil  was  present  with  him ;  to  will  was  present  with 
him,  but  how  to  perform  that  which  was  good  he 
found  not.  For  Geordie  had,  alas !  a  stronger  thirst 
than  that  for  righteousness.  He  was  given  to  "  tast- 


My  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE          81 

ing,"  a  homeopathic  word  which  Scotsmen  use  to  in- 
dicate a  trough.  I  soon  heard  of  him  as  incorrigibly 
religious  but  incorrigibly  dry. 

Geordie  was  the  best-known  character  in  New 
Jedboro,  as  well  known  as  the  town  pump,  the  one 
famed  for  its  outgiving,  the  other  for  its  intaking 
powers,  but  both  alike  for  liquid  prowess.  His 
principal  occupation  was  in  his  wife's  name,  being  a 
boarding-house  whose  inmates  were  secretly  and 
shamefully  proud  of  Geordie's  unique  superiority  in 
his  own  particular  line,  for  he  could  outdrink  the 
countryside. 

The  very  Saturday  which  preceded  my  Sunday  as 
a  candidate  of  St.  Cuthbert's  (they  afterwards  told 
me)  Geordie  was  in  the  kindly  grip  of  the  town  con- 
stable, who  was  bearing  him  towards  the  jail,  his 
victim  loudly  proclaiming  to  the  world  that  the 
guardian  of  the  law  had  arrested  him  only  when 
he,  Geordie,  had  refused  to  treat  for  the  eleventh 
time. 

"  He  tret  the  ainst,  an'  I  tret  ten  times  or  mair," 
Geordie  was  vehemently  affirming  to  a  sympathetic 
street.  Turning  a  corner,  they  met  no  less  a  person- 
age than  Sandy  Weir,  the  session  clerk. 

"  Sandy,  dinna  let  him  tak'  me  to  the  lock-up. 
There's  to  be  a  new  minister  i'  the  kirk,"  he  cried, 
"  an'  I  maun  gang  to  hear  him  preach  the  morn. 


82  ST.   CUTHBERTS 

Sandy,  wull  ye  no'  bid  him  no'  to  tak'  me  to  the 
lock-up  ?  " 

But  Sandy  was  a  man  under  authority,  having 
elders  under  him,  and  he  refrained,  knowing  the 
boundaries  of  his  power. 

Passing  along  a  quiet  street  some  years  after  this, 
I  beheld  the  unreforming  Geordie  in  a  savage  fight 
with  a  kindred  spirit,  who  drew  his  inspiration  from 
the  same  source  as  his  antagonist ;  for  many  a  cork 
they  had  released  together.  The  two  men  fought 
like  tigers,  abandoning  themselves  the  more  cheer- 
fully to  the  combat  they  both  knew  would  end  in  a 
renewal  of  brotherhood  and  beer.  This  thought  lent 
a  sanguine  enthusiasm  to  their  every  effort,  for  each 
felt  it  a  point  of  honour  to  make  the  engagement 
worthy  of  the  "  treaty  "  (a  fitting  word)  that  awaited 
them  at  the  Travellers'  Rest. 

Above  the  din  of  battle  I  heard  a  voice  emerging 
from  Geordie's  head,  which  head  emerged  from  his 
opponent's  oxter  — 

"  Dinna  mark  me,  Jock,  dinna  mark  me ;  for  we're 
gaun  to  hae  the  bairn  baptized  i'  the  kirk  the  morn," 
and  I  knew  not  which  to  admire  more,  Geordie's 
moral  versatility,  or  the  beautiful  comity  of  war. 

Geordie  did  appear  in  the  kirk  with  the  bairn  the 
next  morning,  unmarked,  except  by  unusual 
solemnity.  He  did  not  take  the  vows,  of  course — 


My  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE          83 

these  were  assumed  by  his  long-suffering  and  de- 
voted wife ;  but  Geordie  felt  he  should  be  there  as 
collateral  security. 

I  coveted  Geordie's  soul,  and  longed  to  add  his  re- 
generation to  the  new  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  No 
opportunity  to  speak  with  him  was  ever  allowed  to 
slip,  and  one  came  to  me  whose  details  I  must  re- 
count. There  had  been  an  election  for  the  town 
council,  which  had,  half  in  joke  and  half  in  jealousy, 
returned  Geordie  as  the  councillor  of  his  ward ;  for 
our  glorious  manhood  suffrage,  as  some  one  has 
pointed  out,  makes  Judas  Iscariot  as  influential  at  the 
polls  as  the  Apostle  Paul. 

Returning,  the  night  of  the  election,  from  a  sick- 
bed visit,  I  overtook  the  jubilant  Geordie,  full  of 
emotion  and  other  things.  His  locomotion  was  ir- 
regular and  spasmodic,  his  course  original,  pictur- 
esque, and  variable.  Geordie  was  having  it  out  with 
the  law  of  gravitation. 

He  was  as  a  ship  returning  from  Jamaica,  a  pre- 
cious cargo  of  spirits  in  its  hold,  and  labouring  heavily 
in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  I  essayed  to  take  his  arm, 
intending  to  be  his  wheelsman  home,  but  it  was  like 
trying  to  board  a  vessel  in  a  storm ;  for  Geordie  had 
at  least  a  hundred  routes  which  he  must  traverse 
with  impartial  feet.  After  I  had  somewhat  managed 
to  adopt  his  swing,  I  sought  to  deal  faithfully  with 


84  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

him,  though  it  was  like  preaching  from  the  plunging 
deck  of  a  ship  at  sea,  while  the  breath  of  my  swaying 
auditor  suggested  that  the  aforesaid  cargo  had  sprung 
a  leak. 

He  was  raising  a  double  paean  to  voice  a  twofold 
joy:  the  first,  the  joy  of  triumph  in  the  recent  con- 
test; the  second,  the  historic  and  imperishable  joy 
that  he  was  a  Scotsman  born. 

"  Yon  whelp  I  skelpit  the  day  was  naething  but  an 
Irishman,"  he  cried  loftily.  "  I  canna  get  Robbie 
Burns'  graun'  words  oot  o'  my  heid :  '  The  Scotsmen 
staun'  an'  Irish  fa' — let  him  on  wi'  me,' "  and  on  this 
wave  of  martial  spirit  Geordie  took  another  plunge  at 
right  angles  from  our  previous  course,  bearing  me 
after  him  like  a  skiff  tied  to  a  schooner  amid  stormy 
seas. 

After  we  had  put  about  and  regained  our  bearings, 
I  nimbly  took  advantage  of  this  patriotic  opening, 
having  ever  a  quick  mind  for  the  transition  of  ideas. 

"  Yes,  Geordie,  many  good  things  are  Scotch,  and 
many  Scotch  things  are  good.  Some  misguided 
persons  think  even  that  Scotch  liquor  is  good.  Now, 

George "  But  I  got  no  further.  This  time 

Geordie  swung  around  before  me,  like  a  boat  that 
trusts  its  moorings  — 

"  Ye're  richt,  minister ;  wha  wad  hae  thocht  ye 
kent  the  difference  ?  But  ye're  richt— a'  whusky  is 


My  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE          85 

guid,  but  some's  mair  guid  nor  ithers,  an'  Scotch  is 
mair  guid  nor  ony  ithers.  Those  feckless  Irish  fowk 
aye  tak'  the  speerits  o'  oor  native  land  gin  they  hae 
the  siller,  which  isna  likely.  An'  I  dinna  blame 
them  muckle." 

I  now  saw  that  there  was  no  opening  along  this 
line,  favourable  at  first  sight  as  it  had  appeared.  The 
attack  must  be  plain  and  straight. 

"  Geordie,"  I  began,  "  this  is  a  pitiable  situation  for 
a  minister  to  be  in,  and  you  know,  George " 

"  That's  a'  richt,  minister — dinna  fash  yersel'.  I'll 
no'  mention  it  to  a  soul.  Mony's  the  time  I  hae  been 
fou  masel',  '  peetiably  seetivated,'  as  ye  ca'  it,  bein' 
mair  learned  nor  me ;  to  be  honest  wi'  ye,  I'm  juist  a 
wee  bit  '  peetiably  seetivated '  this  vera  nicht.  But 
I'll  tak'  ye  hame  for  a'  that,  an  nane  '11  hear  tell  o't 
frae  Geordie  Lorimer." 

Then  he  plunged  again,  propelled  by  the  sense  of 
a  new  responsibility,  and  for  a  minute  we  two  per- 
formed, unaided  and  alone,  the  several  different  parts 
of  an  eight-hand  reel. 

Nevertheless,  I  relinquished  not  my  hold,  for  I  was 
truly  attached  to  the  fellow,  and  in  due  time  we  made 
a  mile,  though  I  know  the  cyclometer  would  have 
recorded  ten.  More  hopeful,  I  was  steaming  on,  a 
clerical  tugboat,  when  of  a  sudden  Geordie  stopped, 
pointing  with  his  right  leg  high  in  air,  trusting  me 


86  ST.    CUrHBERT'S 

and  his  left  to  perform  the  relief  duty  thus  de- 
manded. 

"  Yon's  ma  coo,  ma  Ayrshire  coo,"  he  exclaimed, 
pointing  with  his  initial  leg  to  the  white- faced  cow 
which  lay  among  its  kindred,  its  jaw  gently  swing- 
ing. 

"  The  beast  disna  ken,"  I  heard  him  mutter ;  then 
he  suddenly  bolted,  breaking  his  tether,  and  before  I 
could  recover  him  he  had  shambled  on  to  the  road 
with  the  gait  of  a  delirious  camel,  and  kicking  his 
innocent  property  from  behind,  cried  out  — 

"  Get  oot  o'  that.  Sic  like  a  thing,  to  be  lyin'  wi' 
the  common  herd.  Mind  ye,  ye're  no'  an  or'nar^- 
man's  coo — ye're  a  cooncillor's  coo."  Then  he 
retraced  his  labyrinthian  steps  in  a  corresponding 
swath. 

As  we  drew  near  his  humble  gate  (how  often 
Geordie  had  made  that  last  port  with  pain),  he  mut- 
tered to  himself  reflectively  — 

"  I  gied  him  hell,"  referring  doubtless  to  the  van- 
quished candidate. 

Whereat  I  took  him  to  task  right  sternly,  giving 
him  sharply  to  understand  that  such  language  was  an 
insult  to  his  minister  and  friend. 

In  reply,  he  fell  upon  me,  literally  and  figuratively, 
with  tones  of  reproachful  tenderness. 

"  Minister,"  he  said, "  I  own  ye  as  a  faithfu'  guide." 


My  PIOUS  PROFLIGATE          87 

("  You'd  better,"  said  I  to  myself,  for  I  was  weary.) 
"  I  own  ye  as  a  faithfu'  guide,  an'  I  wudna  gie  ye 
pain.  For  we've  had  oor  ain  times  thegither.  I 
micht  maist  say  as  'at '  We  twa  hae  paiddled  i'  the 
burn,'  only  it  wudna  be  becomin'.  But  aboot  that 
word — I've  heard  ye  say  yirsel'  frae  the  pulpit  as 
how  hell  is  a  maist  awfu'  feelin'  i'  the  breist.  Verra 
well,  dinna  ye  think  as  hoo  yon  Irish  whelp  I  skelpit 
the  day  '11  hae  a  waesome  feelin'  i'  his  breist  ?  That's 
a'  the  meanin'  I  desired  till  convey.  It's  nae  wrang 
when  it's  expoun'it.  Guid-nicht  till  ye,  minister." 


XI 

PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND 

BUT  there  are  others  of  whom  I  have  better 
things  to  record,  and  indeed  better  things 
shall  yet  be  set  down   by  me   concerning 
Geordie  Lorimer  before  these  short  and  simple  an- 
nals shall  have  ended.     For  there  is  nothing  so  joy- 
some  to  record  as  the  brightening  story  of  a  soul 
coming  to  its  real  birth  from  the  travail  of  its  sin  and 
struggle.     For  perchance  time  itself  is  God's  great 
midwife,  and  man's  writhing  agony  is  to  the  end  that 
he  may  soon  be  born. 

The  serious  will  doubtless  wish  to  learn  what  befell 
me  in  my  effort  to  beguile  the  rugged  Donald 
M'Phatter  and  his  wife,  who  had  quit  the  kirk  when 
the  kirk  quit  the  tokens,  back  to  the  worship  of  the 
sanctuary.  It  is  many  years  since  they  returned  to 
St.  Cuthbert's  hallowed  shrine,  and  they  now  sing 
the  uncreated  song. 

For  they  have  joined  that  choir  invisible  whose 
voices,  trained  by  God,  blend  in  perfect  unison,  but 
not  in  time ;  for  they  reckon  not  by  days  and  years 
where  they  have  gone  to  dwell. 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND     89 

It  may  be  set  down  as  certain  that  I  would  never 
have  won  them  back  to  church  had  it  not  been  that 
I  abandoned  argument  and  adopted  friendship. 

For  argument,  to  my  mind,  satisfies  a  people's 
souls  as  well  as  a  bill  of  fare  will  suffice  a  hungry 
man ;  but  the  heart's  food  is  a  different  matter. 
Argument  may  be  botany,  but  friendship  is  a  flower ; 
and  one  little  violet  is  better  than  one  big  volume, 
or  a  thousand  of  them,  as  far  as  that  goes.  This  is 
perhaps  the  same  thing  as  to  say  that  a  living  dog 
is  better  than  a  dead  lion,  for  most  big  books  are 
sepulchres — but  I  think  that  my  figure  hath  a  sweeter 
flavour  than  the  other. 

And  when  I  deliver  the  Yale  lectures  to  young 
ministers,  I  shall  tell  them  that  there  is  a  blessed 
guile,  a  holy  cozenage  of  the  heart  whereby  they 
may  win  their  people's  souls  by  stealth.  And  if  a 
parson  hath  some  obdurate  parishioner  or  some 
gnarled  and  snarling  elder,  let  him  attack  him  as  a 
thief  in  the  night,  and  turn  its  darkness  into  day. 

I  had  to  build  my  friendship  with  Donald  brick  by 
brick,  and  oftentimes  it  swayed  before  his  blasts.  A 
hundred  times  I  could  have  been  justly  angry  and  for- 
ever done  with  him.  But  I  knew  a  man,  a  very  near 
relation,  with  whom  God  might  oftener  have  done 
the  same,  and  had  not;  besides,  I  remembered  that 
adroit  petition  in  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  is  the 


90  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

plummet  of  the  soul's  sincerity — and  I  had  read  of 
One  who  reviled  not  again. 

"  In  days  far  by,"  he  charged,  "  oor  faithers  said 
wi'  pride  as  hoo  the  ministers  o'  God  were  dyin' 
for  the  truth ;  but  in  thae  modern  days,  a'  men  say 
as  hoo  they're  dyin'  for  their  steepin'  "  (stipend). 

Now  this  was  hard  to  bear,  for  I  had  declined 
larger  stipends  than  I  accepted  from  St.  Cuthbert's, 
and  some  would  say  that  this  was  a  right  and  proper 
time  to  stand  upon  my  dignity.  But  what  is  so 
dignified  as  the  Cross,  planted  in  the  very  centre  of 
shame's  garden  ?  I  had  long  before  determined  that 
no  man  can  stand  on  dignity,  for  it  must  be  dignity 
that  stands  upon  the  man,  and  by  no  act  or  word  of 
his,  be  it  remarked,  but  by  the  high  act  of  God. 
For  those  men  who  stand  on  dignity  are  top-heavy 
things,  pigmies  upon  stilts,  triangles  upside  down. 

Therefore  I  was  patient  with  Donald,  and  guarded 
our  infant  friendship  as  a  lost  hunter  shields  his  last 
remaining  match.  I  said  little  to  him  about  church, 
and  much  about  the  Highlands.  For  Donald  was  a 
belated  Highlander,  his  parents  having  lapsed  to  the 
lowlands,  where  birth  took  him  at  a  disadvantage ; 
but  he  was  ever  struggling  to  recover  Inverness. 

"  I  was  a  hielandman  afore  I  was  born  and  a  low- 
landman  after.  I  kind  o'  flawed  doon  like,  ye  ken," 
he  said. 


PLUCKING  A   FIERY  BRAND      91 

I  nodded  acquiescence,  for  it  is  a  favourite  theory 
of  mine  that  a  man  is  born  of  his  grandparents  just 
as  much  as  of  his  father  and  his  mother ;  they  are 
equally  responsible,  I  hold,  but  have  the  advantage 
of  an  earlier  retreat. 

It  was  Donald's  great  delight  to  recount  the  fight- 
ing stories  of  his  highland  ancestors.  In  all  that 
bloody  reel  he  joined  again  with  joy.  The  slightest 
reference  to  it,  and  Donald  was  off — over  the  hills 
and  far  away,  his  guid  blue  bonnet  on  his  head,  his 
burly  knees  as  bare  as  the  bayonet  his  fathers  bore, 
and  the  wild  skirl  of  the  bagpipes  in  his  heart. 
Those  pagan-Christian  days,  those  shameful  splen- 
dours of  feud  and  raid  and  massacre,  those  mutual 
pleasantries  of  human  pig-sticking,  those  civilized 
savageries  and  chivalric  demonries — all  these  were 
Donald's  sanguinary  food. 

"  Mind  ye,"  he  would  say,  "  half  the  time  they 
didna  ken  what  they  were  fechtin'  aboot.  But  they 
focht  a'  the  better  for  that — the  graun'  human 
principle  was  there;  they  kent  that  fine,  an'  that  was 
a'  they  needit  for  to  ken.  Forbye,  they  foucht 
when  the  chief  bade  them  fecht.  When  he  gied 
the  word,  hieland  foot  was  never  slow  and  heiland 
bluid  was  never  laggin'.  Man,  what  a  graun'  chief 
Bonyparte  wad  hae  made,  gin  the  M'Phatters  had 
ta'en  him  up !  " 


92  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  Dinna  be  aye  speakin'  aboot  yir  M'Phatters," 
interrupted  his  gentle  wife,  now  somewhat  aroused, 
for  her  maiden  name  was  Elsie  Campbell,  and  she 
had  her  own  share  of  highland  memories.  "  They 
were  guid  eneuch  fechters  in  their  way,  nae  doot, 
but  it  wasna  the  Campbell  way.  Yir  M'Phatter  feet 
that  ye're  haverin'  aboot  was  never  slow  when  the 
Campbells  was  comin',  I'll  grant  ye  that — the  Camp- 
bells did  them,  ye  ken  that  fine,  Donald." 

"  Hoots,  wumman,  ye  dinna  ken  what  yir  sayin'. 
Div  ye  no'  mind  the  battle  o'  the  bluidy  shirt, 
an' " 

"  Haud  yir  wheesht — I  canna  bide  to  hear  aboot 
thae  bluidy  shirts  an'  things.  It's  a  fair  scunner', 
and  the  minister  hearin'  ye  to  the  bargain,"  Elsie 
shut  him  off  triumphantly  in  propriety's  great  name. 

The  first  real  olive  branch  of  friendship  which 
Donald  extended  to  me  was  under  cover  of  the  bag- 
pipes. I  knew  he  was  relenting  when  he  first  asked 
me  if  I  would  like  to  hear  him  play.  I  forged  a 
pious  lie,  declaring  it  would  give  me  the  greatest 
pleasure.  Surely  that  sin  has  been  atoned  for;  I 
have  suffered  for  it  as  no  tongue  can  tell.  The  world 
needeth  a  new  Dante,  to  write  a  new  Inferno,  with 
the  bagpipes  thrown  in.  Then  will  that  sombre 
picture  of  future  suffering  be  complete.  I  make  no 
reckless  charge  against  those  aforesaid  instruments 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND     93 

of  music,  facetiously  so  called.  The  bagpipes  are  a 
good  thing  in  their  place,  but  their  place  is  with 
Dante  and  his  Inferno. 

They  have  survived  only  as  bulldogs  survive,  from 
perverted  sentiment,  and  mal-educated  taste.  For 
the  Scotsman  is  the  most  sentimental  among  men, 
stubbornly  and  maliciously  and  relentlessly  sentimen- 
tal. The  bagpipes  are  a  legacy  from  the  grim  testa- 
ment of  war,  and  the  savage  breath  of  other  days 
belches  through  them  yet.  Ah  me !  with  what 
secret  pride  I  hear  again  far  other  music  wafted  from 
my  native  Emerald  Isle  !  Nor  can  I  well  conceal  my 
joy  that  the  emblem  of  Ireland,  despised  and  rejected 
though  she  be,  is  the  sweetest-tongued  of  all  music- 
making  things  in  this  vale  of  tears.  For  her,  no 
lion,  tempest-crowned,  for  her  no  prowling  bear, 
for  her  no  screaming  eagle — but  the  harp,  melliflu- 
ous and  tender.  And  although  its  liquid  strain  hath 
for  centuries  been  touched  by  sorrow,  yet  there  hath 
been  music  in  its  voice  for  all  the  happier  listening 
world,  and  the  day  draweth  near,  please  God,  when 
its  unfleeting  joy  shall  descend  and  rest  on  her  own 
fields  and  meadows,  making  glad  the  hearts  within 
her  humble  cottages,  whose  only  wealth  is  love. 

But  Donald's  fervent  passion  for  this  warlike 
weapon  of  his  fathers  was  unrestrained  by  thoughts 
of  other  lands.  Had  any  man  suggested  that  Irish 


94  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

music  was  superior,  he  would  doubtless  have  bidden 
him  begone  and  dwell  with  other  lyres.  Such  sug- 
gestion I  did  not  dare  to  make.  On  the  contrary, 
I  smiled  as  he  fondled  his  windy  octopus,  which  he 
did  with  mysterious  tenderness.  Then  he  adjusted 
the  creature  to  his  lips,  while  I  calmly  braced  myself 
for  the  gathering  storm. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  paced  dramatically  back 
and  forward  for  a  minute  in  a  preliminary  sort  of 
way,  like  one  who  pushes  his  shallop  from  the  shore, 
gently  pressing  the  huge  belly  of  the  thing  with  his 
elbow  as  if  to  prompt  it  for  the  ensuing  fray.  The 
thing  emitted  one  or  two  sample  sounds,  not  odious 
particularly,  but  infantile  and  grimly  prophetic,  like 
the  initial  squeaks  of  some  windful  babe  awaking 
from  its  sleep.  Then  the  thing  seemed  to  feel  its 
strength,  to  recognize  its  dark  enfranchisement,  and 
broke  into  such  a  blasphemy  of  sound  as  hath  not 
been  heard  since  the  angels  alighted  where  they  fell. 

I  have  heard  the  deep  roar  of  the  ocean,  and 
have  listened  to  the  screech  of  the  typhoon  through 
befiddled  sails ;  I  have  shuddered  at  the  savage  yell 
of  the  hyena,  and  have  grown  cold,  even  in  the 
tropics,  before  the  tooting  of  the  wounded  elephant ; 
I  have  heard  the  eagle  rend  the  firmament  and  the 
midnight  fog-horn  ring  the  changes  on  eternity — 
join  them  all  together,  and  they  will  be  still  but  as  a 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND     95 

village  choir  compared  to  the  infinite  and  full-orbed 
bray  of  the  highland  bagpipes. 

After  the  first  shock  of  sky-quake  had  subsided, 
Donald  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  a  rapt  and 
heavenly  smile,  the  thing  emitting  sundry  noises  all 
the  while,  like  fragments  from  a  crash  of  sound, 
comparatively  mild,  as  a  stream  which  has  just  run 
Niagara. 

I  stood,  dripping  with  noise,  fearful  lest  the  tide 
might  rush  in  again,  and  looking  about  for  my  hat, 
if  haply  it  might  have  been  cast  up  upon  the  beach. 

"  Wasna  that  a  graun'  ane  ?  "  said  the  machinator. 
"  It's  nae  often  ye'll  hear  the  like  o'  that  in  Canada. 
There's  jist  ae  man  beside  masel'  can  gie  ye  that  this 
side  o'  Inverness — and  he's  broke  i'  the  win'." 

"  Thank  God ! "  I  ejaculated  fervently,  not  know- 
ing what  I  said. 

But  Donald  misunderstood  me  and  I  had  nothing 
to  fear. 

"  Ye're  richt  there,"  he  cried  exultantly ;  "  it's  what 
I  ca'  a  sacred  preevilege  to  hear  the  like  o'  that, 
maist  as  sacred  as  a  psalm.  Ma  faither  used  to  play 
that  verra  tune  at  funerals  i'  the  hielands,  and  the 
words  they  aye  sang  till't  was  these : — 

"  '  Take  comfort,  Christians,  when  your  friends 
In  Jesus  fall  asleep,' 

an'  it  used  to  fair  owercome  the  mourners.     If  ye 


96  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

were  gaun  by  a  hoose  i'  the  hieland  glens,  and  heard 
thae  words  and  that  tune,  ye  cud  mak'  sure  there  was 
a  deid  corpse  i'  the  hoose." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  was  my  response ;  but  he  per- 
ceived nothing  in  the  words  except  reverent  assent. 

"Ay,"  went  on  Donald,  "it's  a  graun'  means  o' 
rest  to  the  weary  heart.  It's  fair  past  everything  for 
puttin'  the  bairns  to  sleep.  Mony's  the  time  I  hae 
lulled  them  wi'  that  same  tune  when  their  mither 
cud  dae  naethin'  wi'  them.  I  dinna  mind  as  I  ever 
heard  a  bairn  cry  when  I  was  gien  them  that  tune." 

"  I  quite  believe  that,"  I  replied,  burning  to  ask 
him  if  they  ever  cried  again.  But  I  refrained,  and 
began  my  retreat  towards  the  door. 

"Bide  a  wee;  I  maun  gie  ye  'The  MacGregor's 
Lament.'" 

But  I  was  obstinate,  having  enough  occasion  for 
my  own. 

"  Hoots,  man,  dinna  gang — it's  early  yet." 

"  But  I  really  feel  that  I  must  go.  I  would  sooner 
hear  it  some  other  time."  At  my  own  funeral,  I 
meant.  "  Besides,  Mr.  M'Phatter,  the  bagpipes 
always  influence  me  strangely.  They  give  me  such 
a  feeling  of  the  other  world  as  kind  of  unfits  me  for 
my  work." 

Whereupon  Donald  let  me  go.  As  I  fled  along 
the  lane  I  watched  him  holding  the  thing  still  in  his 


PLUCKING  A  FIERY  BRAND      97 

hand,  and  I  feared  even  yet  lest  it  might  slip  its 
leash. 

But  I  have  been  thankful  ever  since  that  Donald 
did  not  ask  me  which  other  world  I  meant. 


XII 

"By  That  SAME   TOKEN" 

THIS  was  the  first  step  towards  the  return 
of  the  MThatter  family  to  St.  Cuthbert's 
Church.     I  waited  patiently,  stepped  care- 
fully, and  endured  cheerfully  every  hardship,  from 
the  bagpipes  down;  but  all  the  time  I  had  before 
my  mind  that  triumphant  day  when  Donald  and  his 
household  would  once  more  walk  down  the  kirk's 
spacious  aisle,  like  the  ransomed  of  the  Lord  who 
return  and  come  to  Zion  with  songs  and  everlasting 
joy  upon  their  heads. 

One  glorious  summer  evening  I  broached  the  mat- 
ter to  them  both.  It  was  the  pensive  hour  of  twi- 
light, and  Donald  had  been  telling  me  with  thrilling 
eloquence  of  a  service  he  had  once  attended  in  St. 
Peter's  Church,  Dundee,  when  the  saintly  M'Cheyne 
had  cast  the  spell  of  eternity  about  him.  When  he 
had  got  as  nearly  through  as  he  ever  got  with  his 
favourite  themes,  I  asked  him  to  listen  to  me  for 
a  little,  and  not  to  interrupt.  He  promised,  and  I 
talked  on  to  them  for  an  hour  or  more,  the  twilight 
deepening  into  darkness,  and  the  sweet  incense  of 
nature's  evening  mass  arising  about  us  where  we  sat. 
It  was  the  hour  and  the  season  that  lent  themselves 
98 


"By   That  SAME  TOKEN"  99 

to  memory,  and  I  armed  myself  with  all  the  unfor- 
gotten  years  as  I  bore  down  upon  their  hearts.  The 
duty,  the  privilege,  the  joy  of  mingling  with  the 
great  congregation  in  united  voice  and  heart  to  bless 
the  Creator's  name,  all  this  I  urged  with  passionate 
entreaty. 

"  Oh,  Donald,"  I  cried  at  last,  forgetting  his  seventy 
years  and  the  title  those  years  deserved, "  come  back, 
come  back,  man,  to  the  fountain  at  which  you  drank 
with  joy  long  years  ago !  Oh,  Donald,  it  is  spring- 
ing yet,  and  its  living  waters  are  for  you.  Years 
have  not  quenched  their  holy  stream,  nor  changed 
the  loving  heart  of  Him  who  feeds  them.  Donald 
man,  your  pride  is  playing  havoc  with  your  soul. 
Are  not  the  days  shortening  in  upon  you?  You 
saw  the  darkness  fall  since  we  sat  down  together,  and 
the  night  has  come,  and  it  is  always  night  in  the 
grave.  Man,  hurry  home  before  the  gloaming  be- 
trays you  to  the  dark. 

"  Do  you  not  hear  yonder  clock  ticking  in  the  hall 
that  same  old  song  of  death,  the  same  it  sang,  the 
night  your  father's  father  was  born  in  the  glen,  the 
same  it  wailed  the  night  he  died  ?  It  is  none  other 
than  the  voice  of  God  telling  you  that  the  night 
cometh  fast.  Oh,  Donald,  was  it  not  your  mother 
who  first  taught  you  the  way  to  that  holy  spring, 
even  as  she  taught  your  boyish  feet  the  path  to 


ioo  57.   CUTHBERT'S 

yonder  babbling  burn  which  even  now  is  lilting  to 
the  night  ?  Donald  man,  be  a  little  child  again,  and 
come  back  before  you  die." 

Then  there  was  a  silence  deep  as  death,  and  we 
heard  the  crickets  sing  and  the  drowsy  tinkling  on 
the  distant  hill.  I  spoke  not  another  word,  for 
when  a  great  Scotch  soul  is  in  revolution,  I  would  as 
soon  have  offered  to  assist  at  the  creation  as  seek 
then  to  interfere.  But  I  heard  his  wife  Elsie  sobbing 
gently  and  I  felt  a  tear  on  Donald's  cheek.  My 
heart  caught  its  distilling  fragrance,  like  a  bluebell  on 
some  mountainside,  and  I  knew  that  the  seasons 
were  exchanging  in  Donald's  soul,  winter  retreating 
before  the  avenging  spring. 

Suddenly  he  arose  and  swiftly  spoke  — 

"  I'll  gang  back  on  Sabbath  mornin' ;  I'll  tak'  ma 
mither's  psalm-buik,  and  I'll  gang." 

He  strode  quickly  towards  the  house ;  as  he  passed 
me  the  rising  moon  shone  upon  his  face,  and  it  looked 
like  that  of  a  soul  which  has  the  judgment  day  be- 
hind and  eternal  mother-love  before. 

Elsie  walked  with  me  to  the  gate,  and  her  face  put 
the  now  radiant  night  to  shame.  Her  long  eclipse 
had  ended.  It  was  then  she  told  me  the  secret  of 
the  token  and  her  husband's  love  for  it. 

"  Ye  mauna  think  ower  hard  on  Donald  ;  I  prom- 
ised to  tell  naebody,  but  ye  willna  let  him  ken.  It 


"By   That  SAME  TOKEN"          101 

wasna  the  token  in  itsel',  but  it  was  oor  Elsie  mair. 
Elsie  was  oor  little  lassie  that's  gone  to  bide  wi'  God. 
"  Weel,  when  she  was  a  bit  bairn,  she  aye  gaed 
wi'  us  to  the  sacrament,  and  she  was  awfu'  ta'en  up 
wi'  the  token.  She  wad  spell  oot  the  bit  writin'  on't, 
and  she  thocht  there  was  naethin'  sae  bonnie  as  the 
picture  o'  the  goblet  on  the  ither  side  o't.  And  she 
wad  thrust  her  wee  bit  haun'  intil  Donald's  wes'coat 
pocket,  where  he  aye  keepit  the  token,  an'  she  wad 
tak'  it  oot  an'  luik  at  it,  an'  no'  ask  for  sweeties  or 
gang  to  sleep  or  greet,  like  ither  bairns.  And  when 
she  was  deein',  she  askit  for  it,  and  she  dee'd  wi'  it  in 
her  haun'.  An'  that  verra  nicht,  when  Donald  an' 
me  was  sittin'  fon'lin'  her  gowden  curls  an'  biddin' 
ane  anither  no'  to  greet — for  ae  broken  hairt  can 
comfort  anither  broken  hairt — he  slippit  the  token 
frae  oot  her  puir  cauld  wee  haun',  an'  he  read  the 
writin'  that's  on't  oot  lood :  '  This  do  in  remembrance 
of  Me,'  an'  he  says, '  I'll  dae  it  in  remembrance  o' 
them  baith,  mither — o'  Christ  an'  oor  Elsie — an' 
when  I  show  forth  the  Lord's  death  till  He  come,  I'll 
aye  think  o'  them  baith,  an'  think  o'  them  baith 
thegither  in  the  yonderland — Christ  an'  oor  Elsie — 
an'  me  an'  you  tae,  mither,  a'  thegither  in  the 
Faither's  hoose.'  An'  a'  the  time  o'  the  funeral  he 
hauded  the  token  ticht,  an'  he  keepit  aye  sayin'  till 
himsel', '  Christ  an'  oor  Elsie — an'  us  a'.' 


102  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  Next  Sabbath  was  the  sacrament,  an'  Donald  gaed 
alane,  for  I  cudna  gang  wi'  him,  and  that  was  the 
day  they  tell't  the  fowk  hoo  communion  cairds  was 
better,  an'  hoo  they  wudna  use  the  tokens  ony  mair. 
Then  Donald  grippit  the  seat,  an'  he  rose  an'  gaed 
oot  o'  the  kirk,  an'  cam  hame,  an'  gaed  till  his  room, 
an'  I  didna  see  his  face  till  the  gloamin'.  Oh,  min- 
ister, dinna  think  owre  hard  aboot  him.  That's  why 
he  never  gaed  mair  to  the  kirk,  for  he  loved  oor 
Elsie  sair." 

I  pressed  her  hand  in  parting,  but  I  spoke  no 
word,  for  I  was  thinking  passionately  of  those  golden 
curls,  and  that  little  hand  in  which  the  token  lay 
tightly  clasped ;  but  it  was  our  Margaret's  face  that 
was  white  upon  the  pillow.  Love  is  a  great  in- 
terpreter. 

The  next  Sabbath  morning  saw  Donald  and  Elsie 
in  the  courts  of  Zion,  and  great  peace  was  upon  their 
brows.  When  I  ascended  the  pulpit  stairs,  they 
were  already  in  their  ancestral  pew,  now  the  property 
of  Hector  Campbell,  who  had  abandoned  it  with  joy, 
only  asking  that  he  be  given  one  in  the  gallery  from 
which  he  might  see  Donald's  face. 

We  opened  our  service  with  the  Scottish  psalm  — • 

"How 


ow  lovely  is  Thy  dwelling-place, 
Oh,  Lord  of  hosts,  to  me," 


"By  That  SAME  TOKEN"         103 

and  a  strange  thing  befell  us  then.  Donald  was 
singing  huskily,  struggling  with  a  storm  which  had 
its  centre  in  his  heart,  all  the  more  violent  because  it 
was  a  summer  storm  and  fed  from  the  inmost  tropics 
of  his  soul.  But  it  was  the  part  Elsie  took  in  that 
great  psalm  which  is  still  the  wonder  of  all  who  were 
there  that  day,  though  her  voice  hath  long  been 
silent  in  the  grave.  She  had,  years  before,  been 
reckoned  the  sweetest  singer  of  all  who  helped  to 
swell  St.  Cuthbert's  praise.  Her  voice  had  been 
trained  by  none  but  God,  yet  its  power  and  richness 
were  unequalled.  But  her  last  song  had  been  by  the 
bedside  of  her  dying  child,  and  those  who  heard  her 
say  there  was  not  a  faltering  note. 

And  now  her  voice  was  released  again,  and  her 
unchained  soul,  aflame  with  its  long-silent  love  for 
the  courts  of  Zion,  found  in  that  voice  its  highway 
up  to  God.  No  psalm-book,  no  note  of  music  made 
by  hand,  no  human  thought  repressed  her  or  tram- 
melled her  exultant  wing.  Uncaged,  she  sang  as 
the  lark  sings  when  native  meadows  bid  its  exile 
cease. 

From  the  first  note,  clear  and  radiant,  as  on  a 
golden  staircase  her  voice  went  upward  with  its 
loving  sacrifice.  All  eyes  were  turned  upon  her,  all 
other  voices  hushed  in  wonder,  while  even  the  won- 
dering precentor  abdicated  to  join  the  vassal  throng. 


104  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

But  she  knew  it  not — knew  nothing,  indeed,  but 
that  she  was  again  in  the  unforgotten  house  of  God, 
and  pouring  out  her  soul  to  the  soul's  great  Com- 
forter. And  she  sat  down  with  the  others  when 
the  psalm  was  done,  but  wist  not  that  her  face 
shone. 


The  kirk  session  was  convened  in  my  room  after 
the  great  service  ceased,  and  the  glow  of  joy  was  on 
every  face.  This  joy  they  carefully  concealed,  as 
was  their  way,  but  I  felt  its  heat  even  when  I  could 
not  see  its  gleam.  One  or  two  spoke  briefly,  and 
their  parted  lips  disclosed  their  deep  rejoicing,  but 
only  for  a  moment,  as  you  have  caught  the  bed  of 
flame  behind  the  furnace's  swiftly  closing  door.  I 
told  them,  in  a  word,  of  Donald  and  his  Elsie  and  his 
token. 

They  were  stern  men,  and  ruled  the  kirk  with 
sternness ;  they  had  dealt  faithfully  with  more  than 
one  who  sought  to  restore  the  reign  of  the  token 
against  the  expressed  ruling  of  the  session.  They 
nipped  contumacy  in  the  bud. 

But  it  was  moved  by  Ronald  M'Gregor,  and  sec- 
onded by  Saunders  M'Dermott,  and  unanimously 
carried,  "  That  the  clerk  be  instructed  to  inform 
Donald  MThatter,  and  his  wife  Elsie  MThatter,  that 


"By   That  SAME  TOKEN"          105 

it  is  the  will  of  the  kirk  session  of  St.  Cuthbert's  that 
they  be  in  no  wise  admitted  to  the  sacrament  except 
on  presentation  of  tokens  regularly  stamped  and 
bearing  the  date  of  1845." 


XIII 
WITH  The  WORKMEN 

I  THINK  we  first  realized  the  worth  of  Angus 
Strachan  the  year  of  the  great  strike  among  the 
mechanics  of  New  jedboro.  That  was  a  ter- 
rible year,  and  the  memory  of  it  is  dark  and  clammy 
yet.  For  our  whole  town,  and  almost  every  man's 
bread  and  butter,  rose  and  fell  with  the  industry  or 
the  idleness  of  our  great  iron  manufactories.  To  my 
mind,  the  cause  of  the  trouble  was  twofold :  first, 
that  the  proprietors  were  very  rich ;  and  second,  that 
the  agitators  were  very  scoundrels.  For  we  had  as 
happy  a  class  of  working  men  in  New  Jedboro,  take 
them  on  the  whole,  as  the  God  of  work  looked  down 
upon.  They  were  in  receipt  of  fair  and  considerable 
wages,  their  shops  were  clean  and  well  ventilated,  and 
their  hours  reasonably  short,  especially  if  compared 
to  those  poor  creatures  whom  greed  and  selfishness 
keep  behind  the  counters  till  twelve  o'clock  on  a  Sat- 
urday night.  And  I  have  noticed  that  those  who 
howl  the  loudest  about  long  hours  are  those  who 
postpone  their  shopping  till  ten  or  eleven  of  these 
same  Saturday  nights.  4 

For  the  most  part,  they  owned  their  own  homes 
106 


WITH  The   WORKMEN  107 

and  the  plots  of  ground  they  gardened,  and  I  do 
contend  that  the  watering-can  and  the  spade  and 
the  pruning  knife  are  a  means  of  grace.  Very  many 
of  them  made  twelve  shillings  a  day,  which  is  three 
dollars  in  our  good  Canadian  money,  and  some  of  the 
highest  paid  made  twice  as  much.  And  there  was 
work  for  them  every  working  day  and  every  working 
hour  of  the  day. 

The  peace  was  broken  when  two  sleek  and  well- 
dressed  agitators  came  to  town,  agents  for  the  Central 
Organization,  whose  mild  and  pleasant  duty  it  was  to 
tell  free-born  working-men  when  they  were  to  work 
and  when  to  starve. 

These  gentlemen  soon  precipitated  a  general  strike, 
in  which  they  took  a  highly  sympathetic  part,  reviving 
the  flagging  courage  of  half-starving  wives  and  chil- 
dren, exhorting  them  to  endure  unto  the  end ;  and 
be  it  said  to  their  lasting  credit,  these  aforesaid  gen- 
tlemen toiled  faithfully  to  spread  their  new  evangel, 
desisting  only  three  times  a  day,  when  they  repaired 
to  their  six-course  meals  at  the  Imperial  Hotel. 

They  pointed  out,  between  meals,  to  the  hun- 
gry men  how  well-pleasing  was  their  hunger  in 
the  sight  of  heaven,  for  it  would  help  some  fellow- 
workmen  three  thousand  miles  away,  and  possibly  be 
of  benefit  to  some  few  who  had  not  yet  been  born. 
Hunger,  they  pointed  out  with  lofty  ardour,  might 


108  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

not  be  comfortable  in  every  case,  but  it  was  glorious, 
and  in  the  line  of  immortal  fame.  All  of  this  was 
somewhat  marred  by  their  occasional  gulping  and 
hiccoughing,  for  six-course  dinners  are  not  friendly 
to  ethereal  oratory.  When  one  of  them  got  through, 
the  other,  having  finished  the  picking  of  his  teeth, 
would  take  the  stand  and  divulge  anew  to  these  un- 
derfed immortals  the  secrets  of  the  Book  of  Life. 

Then  their  poor  dupes  would  cheer  with  a  desper- 
ate attempt  at  courage,  but  it  was  to  me  like  the 
bleating  of  sheep  that  are  led  to  the  slaughter. 
Wearily  they  sought  their  once  happy  homes,  to  find 
empty  larders  and  broken-hearted  wives,  their  won- 
dering children  crying  for  the  necessities  they  had 
never  lacked  before,  their  clothes  in  tatters,  and  the 
roses  departed  from  their  cheeks. 

Many  a  sick  wife  and  ailing  child  did  I  visit  then, 
pining  for  the  little  delicacies  their  breadwinner  could 
not  afford  to  buy — all  of  this  at  the  behest  of  two 
bespangled  gentlemen,  who  even  then  were  writing 
to  their  distant  wives,  enclosing  substantial  checks, 
and  descanting  eloquently  upon  the  sumptuous  fare 
at  the  aforesaid  Imperial  Hotel. 

Two  sights  there  are  in  this  panoramic  world  which 
greatly  madden  me,  and  they  are  twins. 

The  first  is  the  spectacle  of  a  pot-bellied  landlord, 
his  wife  and  family  sated  with  every  luxury,  as  he 


WITH  The  WORKMEN  109 

smilingly  takes  across  the  bar — have  you  ever  seen  a 
snake  swallow  its  prey,  an  equally  slimy  sight  ? — the 
five-cent  piece  of  some  poor  fellow  whose  child  hath 
neither  toy  nor  bread,  and  whose  broken  wife,  strug- 
gling in  God's  name  to  shield  her  children  from  in- 
decency and  want,  will  tremblingly  explore  his 
pocketbook  at  midnight,  only  to  find  every  farthing 
of  his  wages  gone.  For  the  aforesaid  smiling  land- 
lord hath  poured  it  into  the  satin  lap  of  the  equally 
smiling  wife  at  the  Travellers'  Rest. 

And  the  other  sight  is  the  spectacle  of  a  compla- 
cent gentleman,  organ  for  the  Trades  and  Labour 
Union,  who  alighteth  from  his  Pullman  car  to  ply  his 
incendiary  trade,  living  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  while 
weeping  wives  stroke  the  famished  faces  of  their 
hungry  bairns  and  dumbly  plead  with  God  that  this 
cruel  strike  may  soon  be  over. 

It  was  at  such  a  time  as  this  that  Angus  first  im- 
pressed us  with  his  real  power.  We  had  seen  much 
of  him  in  the  years  that  had  passed  since  he  spent 
his  first  New  Jedboro  night  beneath  our  roof.  Often 
and  often  he  would  spend  the  evening  with  us,  chat- 
ting on  pleasant  topics  or  teaching  our  Margaret  the 
high  things  of  chess,  at  which  he  was  well-nigh  a 
master.  But  I  little  dreamed  then  what  fateful  moves 
there  may  be  even  in  a  game  of  chess,  what  mating 
and  checkmating  and  sundry  other  operations 


no  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

may  be  sublimely  mingled  in  that  so  interesting 
struggle. 

We  heard  with  pleasure  that  Angus  was  making 
rare  progress  in  his  chosen  trade,  and  even  now,  al- 
though early  in  his  twenties,  he  was  head  draughts- 
man in  all  that  great  establishment.  Night  schools, 
with  wide  and  constant  reading,  had  made  his  Eng- 
lish almost  as  good  as  new,  and  the  shabby  lad  of 
six  or  seven  years  ago  was  now  a  citizen  amongst  us 
of  repute  and  promise. 

But  that  is  no  rare  occurrence  in  this  new  world  of 
ours,  where  men  have  better  chances  than  the  rigid 
ways  of  the  old  land  will  afford.  For  old  Scotland 
means  that  her  mountains  shall  remain  mountains, 
and  her  valleys  she  purposes  shall  be  valleys  ever- 
more; and  I  make  little  doubt  that  Mr.  Carnegie 
would  have  been  ranked  with  the  valleys  till  they  re- 
ceived his  dust  had  he  never  sought  the  wider  spaces 
of  our  Western  World.  From  which  Western  World 
both  their  hills  and  valleys  have  received  his  dust  in 
rich  abundance. 

Passing  a  crowded  hall  one  night  when  this  indus- 
trial storm  was  at  its  height,  I  heard  a  voice  which 
seemed  familiar  addressing  the  excited  men,  and 
surely  there  hath  never  before  or  since  been  heard  a 
speech  of  greater  sense  and  soundness. 

"  Are  we  working  men  fools  enough,"  he  was  ask- 


WTIH  The  WORKMEN  in 

ing  as  I  entered,  "  to  be  led  by  the  nose  at  the  will 
of  these  strangers  who  want  us  to  strike  in  the  in- 
terests of  Chicago  or  St.  Louis  or  San  Francisco  ? 
Charity  begins  at  home,  and  our  first  duty  is  to  look 
after  our  own.  If  we  are  going  to  have  dictators  in 
this  matter,  let  us  choose  them  from  honest  workers 
among  ourselves,  and  not  from  high-salaried  impor- 
tations such  as  these.  Look  at  their  hands  the  next 
time  you  get  a  chance,  and  tell  me  why  they  are  so 
smooth  and  white.  None  of  your  diamond-ringed 
fraternity  for  me,"  cried  Angus  with  growing  passion. 

At  this  point  Jack  Slater  interrupted.  Jack  was 
famed  for  his  hearty  resistance  to  every  industrious 
instinct,  resolutely  denying  himself  the  much-lauded 
sweets  of  toil.  He  was  the  leading  Socialist  of  the 
town,  hating  every  man  who  was  an  actual  toiler  with 
his  hands,  always  excepting  the  well-fed  agitators, 
whom  he  worshipped  with  ignorant  devotion. 

"  I  just  want  fer  to  ask  Mr.  Strachan  one  question. 
What  right  has  them  fellows  what  owns  the  foundries 
to  be  makin'  ropes  of  money  while  the  likes  of  us 
only  gets  our  two  dollars  a  day  ?  Let  us  have  equal- 
ity, that's  what  I  say.  Give  me  equality  or  give  me 
death.  God  made  one  man  as  good  as  another,  and 
it's  the  devil  as  tries  to  make  them  different.  Let's 
divide  up,  that's  what  I  say,  and  don't  have  them  fel- 
lows sportin'  round  in  their  carriages  and  goin'  to 


ti2  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

Europe,  while  the  rest  of  us  is  sweatin'  through  the 
dog  days  in  the  shops." 

Loud  murmurs  of  approval  broke  from  a  hundred 
sullen  lips,  and  Bob  Taylor,  encouraged  by  Jack's 
success,  jumped  to  his  feet  and  shouted  — 

"  I  hopes  as  how  all  the  fellers  '11  stand  firm  and 
bring  the  bosses  up  with  the  short  turn.  We  kin  do 
it,  for  we're  the  lads  as  makes  their  money  for  them. 
What  them  kerridge  fellows  needs  is  a  bash  or  two 
in  the  jaw  from  the  horny  hand  of  toil.  I  goes  in 
fer  rotten-eggin'  all  the  scabs  as  agrees  to  work  lower 
nor  the  wage  we  set,  and  if  that  won't  do,  I  goes  in 
fer  duckin'  'em ;  and  if  duckin'  won't  do,  I  goes  in 
fer  fixin'  'em  so's  they  won't  work  nowheres.  If  this 
is  a  free  country,  let's  have  our  share  of  the  kerridges 
— I  believe  in  equality  the  same  as  Jack." 

These  views  were  received  with  renewed  expres- 
sions of  approval,  for  to  most  of  the  excited  men 
they  seem  quite  unanswerable. 

"  That's  the  ticket ;  make  'em  walk  the  plank. 
We're  just  as  good  as  them,"  I  heard  some  burly 
mechanic  mutter. 

The  eager  audience  turned  towards  Angus,  await- 
ing his  reply,  if  haply  reply  could  be  provided.  It 
has  been  my  lot  to  hear  many  strong  addresses,  but 
I  esteem  this  answering  speech  of  Angus's  among 
the  strongest  utterances  I  have  heard. 


The   WORKMEN  113 

"  Mr.  Slater  wishes,"  he  began,  "  to  know  by  what 
right  our  employers  make  more  money  than  we  do. 
In  answer,  let  me  ask  him  by  what  right  Bill  Mont- 
gomery, the  foreman  in  the  moulding  shop,  gets 
more  money  every  pay-day  than  Tom  Coxford,  who 
is  one  of  his  men.  I  suppose  he  will  admit  it  is  be- 
cause Bill  has  more  ability  and  more  experience  than 
Tom ;  he  will  also  admit  that  the  difference  in  their 
wages  is  a  just  difference,  and  indeed  I  have  never 
heard  any  one  find  fault  with  it.  Well,  carry  out 
that  principle,  and  some  one  who  has  more  skill 
than  Montgomery  will  get  more  money  than  he  gets. 
Then  there  will  be  some  one  above  him  again,  and 
so  on  till  you  get  to  the  head  of  the  firm.  If  differ- 
ing wages  are  just  at  all — and  every  one  admits  they 
are — then  how  can  you  deny  their  legitimate  profits 
to  the  men  whose  industry  and  business  ability  have 
established  the  concern  and  guided  it  along  to  what 
it  is  to-day  ? 

"  Mr.  Slater  says  that  men  are  all  equal.  I  don't 
agree  with  him.  It  is  clear  that  God  means  some 
men  to  be  rich  and  others  to  be  less  rich.  If  a  man 
quarrels  with  the  inequality  among  men,  his  quarrel 
is  with  God.  God  makes  some  men  richer  than 
others  to  begin  with.  When  we  see  the  highest 
riches,  like  those  of  brains  and  strength,  unequally 
divided,  we  need  not  wonder  to  see  the  lesser  riches 


H4  ST.   CUTHBER  T' S 

somewhat  unevenly  distributed.  God  gives  one  man, 
or  a  woman  like  Jenny  Lind,  a  voice  that  means  a 
thousand  dollars  a  night  as  often  as  they  want  to 
sing,  and  He  gives  another  man  a  voice  like  an 
alarm-clock  or  a  buzz-saw.  He  gives  one  man  a 
mind  that  seems  always  to  be  full,  and  another  man 
a  mind,  let  him  do  his  best,  that  is  always  as  empty 
as  a  last  year's  nest.  Surely  I  have  more  ground  for 
envying  the  man  who  is  born  with  more  brains  than 
I  than  the  man  who  is  born  with  more  wealth  than  I. 
And  yet  God  alone  is  responsible  for  the  first-named 
inequality.  We  hear  too  much  rubbish  about  this 
theory  of  all  men  being  equal  born. 

"  As  for  Bob  Taylor's  hint  that  we  should  employ 
violence  to  prevent  men  working  for  what  wage  they 
please,  I  have  only  this  to  say,  that  nobody  but  a 
lazy  dog  like  him  would  suggest  such  a  policy. 

"  We  all  know  that  when  the  whistle  blows  in 
the  morning,  Bob  always  tries  how  much  of  it  he 
can  hear  before  he  goes  in ;  and  when  it  blows  at 
night,  he  tries  how  much  of  it  he  can  hear  after  he 
gets  out.  Bob  is  always  slow  at  the  end  where  he 
ought  to  be  quick,  and  quick  at  the  end  where  all 
honest  men  try  at  least  to  be  decently  slow  ;  and  then 
he  talks  to  us  about  ducking  some  poor  fellow  who 
wants  to  make  an  honest  living  for  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. I  will  say  this  much,  too,  that  if  the  time  ever 


WITH  The   WORKMEN  115 

comes  when  a  free-born  man  cannot  sell  his  labour 
in  the  market  for  what  price  he  likes,  then  I  will  turn 
my  back  upon  the  old  flag  and  leave  its  soil  forever. 

"  Now,  I  am  going  to  ask  Mr.  Slater  a  question 
or  two  about  this  dividing  up  business. 

"  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Slater,  if  a  man  has  a  mil- 
lion dollars,  that  he  ought  to  divide  up  with  the  man 
who  has  very  little,  if  that  man  happens  to  be  work- 
ing for  him  ?  " 

"  Most  sartintly,"  replied  Jack. 

"  Very  well,  if  a  man  has  ten  thousand  dollars, 
should  he  divide  up  with  a  poorer  man  who  works 
for  him  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  answered  Jack  promptly. 

"  Well,  suppose  a  man  has  a  house  and  a  little  gar- 
den, and  he  has  a  man  hired  to  help  dig  it  or  repair 
it,  should  he  divide  up  with  this  poorer  workman  who 
has  neither  house  nor  garden  ?  " 

Jack  hesitated,  his  brows  knit  in  thought ;  then  he 
answered  slowly  — 

"  Naw,  I  don't  just  think  so.  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Angus. 

"Well,  'twouldn't  be  fair;  besides,  I  happen  to 
have  a  little  house  and  garden  of  my  own." 

Then  all  that  crowd  of  men  exploded  in  a  burst  of 
derisive  laughter  which  set  the  seal  of  triumph  on 
Angus's  argument. 


n6  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

After  the  uproar  had  subsided,  an  intrepid  Scots- 
man, only  a  few  months  in  New  Jedboro,  volunteered 
to  address  the  meeting. 

"  I  canna  jist  answer  the  argyments  o'  Mr.  Strachan, 
but  I  maun  pit  forrit  my  idea  that  oor  wives  and 
bairns  haena  the  luxuries  o'  them  as  owns  the  works. 
I  canna  but  mind  that  Robbie  Burns  said,  'A  man's  a 
man  for  a'  that,'  an'  I  thocht  the  present  a  fittin'  oc- 
casion to  mind  ye  o'  the  words,  bein'  as  we're  met 
the  nicht  to  speak  oot  against  slavery  o'  ilka  kind." 

"  No  man  who  knows  me,"  replied  Angus,  "  will 
say  that  I  will  either  yield  to  slavery  or  assist  it  in 
any  form.  But  the  man  who  calls  himself  a  slave  be- 
cause his  employer  has  more  money  than  he,  is  no 
friend  to  honest  labour.  We  would  all  like  wealth,  but 
wealth  is  neither  happiness  nor  liberty.  After  all, 
the  men  whom  we  envy  have  not  so  much  more  than 
we ;  they  can  only  lie  on  one  pillow  at  a  time,  can 
only  eat  one  mouthful  at  a  time,  can  only  smoke  one 
cigar  at  a  time,  and  as  for  the  kind  of  couch  a  man 
sits  down  upon,  it  matters  little  so  that  he  has  earned 
his  rest  by  honest  toil. 

"  My  Scottish  friend  hardly  realizes  what  he  says. 
I  know  he  has  a  wife  and  a  sweet  little  lassie.  There 
is  Mr.  Blake,  the  richest  of  our  manufacturers,  and  he. 
has  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Now  I  ask  my 
compatriot,  would  he  trade  his  lot  for  that  of  Mr, 


WITH  The  WORKMEN  117 

Blake  with  all  his  money  ?  He  answers  no.  Then 
who  is  the  richer  man — Mr.  Blake,  or  our  fellow- 
workman  from  auld  Scotland  ? 

"  Speaking  of  Scotland,  let  me  say  this  one  word. 
I  lived  there  till  I  was  a  well-grown  lad,  as  did  scores 
of  you,  and  I  defy  you  to  contradict  me  when  I  say 
that  we  are  a  hundred  times  better  off  here  than 
we  were  among  the  sheep  or  behind  the  ploughs 
in  the  old  land,  neither  of  which  we  could  hardly  ever 
hope  to  call  our  own.  Were  we  not  there  accounted 
almost  as  sheep  for  the  slaughter  ?  How  much  bet- 
ter were  we  than  the  kine  we  tended  ?  Were  not  we 
even  driven  from  the  land  we  rented  at  a  cruel  price, 
that  some  haughty  lord  might  make  a  deer-run  of 
the  place  ?  What  were  we  there  but  grovelling  vas- 
sals, and  what  hope  had  we  ever  to  be  independent, 
or  to  own  even  a  house  in  which  to  die? 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  of  the  difference  here, 
of  how  the  most  of  us  have  our  own  little  homes, 
and  count  our  friends  among  the  best  people  in  New 
Jedboro ;  and  three-fourths  of  the  aldermen  in  our 
council,  and  the  trustees  of  our  schools,  and  the 
elders  of  our  kirks,  are  from  the  ranks  of  honest 
labour. 

"  Let  us  thank  God  we  have  escaped  from  the  class 
tyranny  and  the  peasant  bondage  of  the  land  beyond 
the  seas." 


n8  S7.   CUTHBERT'S 

A  new  and  different  light  was  now  upon  the  rapt 
faces  of  the  men — and  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  they 
turned  the  diamond-ringed  gentlemen  from  their 
doors. 


XIV 
WITH  The  EMPLOYERS 

NOR  was  this  the  last  of  Angus's  eloquence. 
A  few  days  later  the  manufacturers,  being 
met  in  conclave  at  Mr.  Blake's  office,  sent 
for  the  young  Scotsman  and  personally  thanked  him 
for  his  good  offices  in  settling  the  strike.  Both  sorts 
were  there — the  kind  and  the  unkind,  the  gentleman 
and  the  churl — but  all  alike  united  in  grateful  praise 
for  the  mediation  which  Angus  had  accomplished. 
Many  unctuous  things  were  said,  but  when  one 
tyrant  arose  to  speak  his  gratitude,  Angus's  face  bore 
a  look  which  boded  ill. 

"  We're  glad,"  said  Mr.  M'Dougall,  swelling  with 
vulgar  pompousness,  "  to  see  that  you  recognize  the 
rights  of  property  and  the  claims  of  vested  interests. 
And  we  trust,"  he  added,  "  that  Labour  has  learned 
a  lesson  it  will  not  soon  forget."  Then  he  sat  down 
with  the  majesty  of  a  balloon  descending. 

"  I  am  glad,  sir,"  replied  Angus,  "  to  have  been  of 
service  in  quelling  a  movement  led  by  selfish  and 
grasping  strangers,  but  I  may  at  the  same  time  say 

that  it  would  be  well  for  Mr,.   M'Dougall  and   his 

119 


120  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

kind  to  pay  more  heed  himself  to  the  rights  of 
property.  For  skill  and  industry  and  faithfulness 
are  property  just  as  much  as  Mr.  M'Dougall's 
vested  interests.  And  he  may  as  well  be  warned 
that  Labour  will  not  forever  tolerate  the  selfishness 
and  the  pride  with  which  he  treats  his  hands." 

"  I  move,"  interrupted  Mr.  Thoburn,  himself  a 
gifted  tyrant,  "  that  this  meeting  do  now  adjourn." 

"  This  meeting  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 
This  time  it  was  Mr.  Blake  who  spoke,  and  there 
was  iron  in  his  voice.  "  None  of  us  thought  Mr. 
Strachan  spoke  too  long  when  he  was  dealing  with 
the  agitators  from  Chicago,  and  let  us  hear  him  out, 
unless  we  are  bigger  cowards  than  the  men  who 
work  for  us." 

The  meeting  endorsed  these  sentiments,  and  Angus 
resumed  — 

"  I  speak  in  the  interests  of  Capital,"  he  said, 
"  when  I  declare  that  the  fault  is  not  all  on  the  side 
of  the  working  man.  Many  of  our  employers  are 
kind  and  sympathetic  men,  but  others  of  them  are 
not.  I  envy  no  man  among  you  the  wealth  he  has 
gathered,  but  the  selfishness  of  some  of  our  manu- 
facturers is  maddening  to  the  working  man. 

"  Some  of  you  know  nothing  of  our  trials  and  our 
difficulties,  and,  what  is  worse,  you  do  not  want 
to  know.  You  pass  by  the  men  who  are  mak- 


WITH  The  EMPLOYERS  121 

ing  you  rich  as  though  they  were  the  dogs  of  the 
street.  You  sit  next  pew  to  them  in  the  kirk,  and 
yet  treat  them  like  the  dirt  beneath  your  feet.  It  is 
doubtless  your  conviction  that  you  have  discharged 
your  whole  duty  to  us  when  you  pay  our  wages 
every  fortnight.  I  tell  you,"  he  cried  passionately, 
"  that  is  the  great  fallacy  which  is  yet  to  prove  the  un- 
doing of  the  employers  of  labour. 

"  You  forget  we  are  men,  as  well  as  you,  and  have 
higher  claims  upon  you  than  your  pay  sheet  ac- 
knowledges. If  our  employer  dies,  we  follow  him 
in  a  body  to  his  grave.  If  one  of  us  dies,  you 
drive  past  his  hearse  with  your  haughty  carriages, 
or  bolt  down  a  side  street  to  avoid  the  association. 

"  Tom  Lamplough,  who  has  worked  for  Mr. 
Thoburn  twenty  years,  buried  his  only  child  last 
Thursday,  and  his  employer  spent  the  afternoon 
speeding  his  thoroughbred  on  the  race-track  beside 
the  cemetery.  At  the  very  moment  when  Tom  was 
groping  about  the  open  grave,  struggling  with  his 
broken  heart  and  following  his  daughter  with  stream- 
ing eyes,  Mr.  Thoburn  was  bawling  out  that  his  filly 
had  done  it  in  two  and  a  quarter — and  the  clods 
were  falling  on  the  coffin  all  the  while." 

At  this  juncture  Thoburn  arose,  his  face  the  very 
colour  of  the  corpse  he  had  disdained. 

"  Will  no  man  throttle  this  fanatic  ?  "  he  hoarsely 


122  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

craved.  "  Must  we  be  insulted  thus  by  a  mere  work- 
ing man  ?  " 

"  I  insult  no  man,"  retorted  his  accuser,  "  when  I 
tell  him  but  the  truth.  It  was  you  who  insulted 
the  dead,  and  outraged  her  desolate  father  because 
he  was  but  your  servant.  Is  what  I  say  the  truth  ?  " 

"  I  decline  to  answer  that,"  said  Thoburn. 

"  You  will  not  decline  to  answer  before  the  throne 
of  God.  For  you  and  Tom  will  meet  yonder. 
Good  God,  man,  did  you  ever  think  of  that  ?  Did 
it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  and  Tom  will  take 
your  last  ride  in  the  same  conveyance,  and  have  the 
same  upholstery  in  the  tomb?  And  somebody 
else's  filly  will  be  making  its  mile  in  less  time  than 
yours  when  the  clods  are  falling  on  your  coffin." 

I  have  often  marvelled  at  this  strange  power  of 
rhetoric  in  an  untutored  man ;  but  it  only  confirmed 
what  I  am  more  and  more  inclined  to  believe — that 
emotion  and  intellect  are  twins,  and  that  the  soul  is 
oratory's  native  home. 

There  was  a  pause,  but  it  was  brief.  For  there 
flew  to  the  rescue  of  his  beleaguered  brother  Mr. 
Hiram  Orme,  the  millionaire  proprietor  of  the  great 
Acme  works.  Vulgar  and  proud,  he  lived  a  life  of 
ostentatious  luxury. 

No  thought  of  the  poor  or  the  suffering  ever  dis- 
turbed the  shallow  tenor  of  his  enamelled  existence 


WITH  The  EMPLOYERS  123 

Secure  in  the  fortress  of  wealth,  which  is  a  lie !  he 
cared  nothing  for  such  wounded  soldiers  as  had 
helped  to  build  it,  or  for  their  widows  or  their  or- 
phans. With  all  sail  set,  he  careened  on  his  incon- 
siderate way,  and  the  vessels  whose  side  he  sought 
were  never  those  bearing  the  signals  of  distress. 

Mr.  Hiram  Orme  had  a  high  contempt  for  all 
working  men,  and  a  keen  suspicion  of  every  attitude 
which  smacked  of  liberty.  The  working  man,  like 
the  negro,  was  happier  far  in  a  state  of  semi-slavery 
— such  was  the  honest  view  of  the  honest  man. 

And  now  he  was  upon  his  feet,  glaring  with  wrath, 
profoundly  complacent  in  the  assurance  of  superior 
wealth,  and  prepared  to  demolish  both  Angus  and 
the  King's  English  at  a  blow. 

"  Them's  nice  words,"  he  broke  forth,  "  for  a 
working  man  to  be  using  to  the  man  what  he's 
dependent  on  for  to  get  his  bread  and  butter.  And 
I  want  for  to  tell  this  man  Strachan  that  beggars 
can't  be  choosers.  A  pretty  preachment  he's  givin* 
us  about  coffins  and  them  like  things.  There's  one 
thing  certain,  and  that  is,  me  and  the  rest  of  my 
brother  manufacturers  will  have  a  sight  finer  coffins 
than  him  and  his  sort  will  have."  The  manufacturers 
shuddered,  like  men  sitting  in  some  deadly  draught. 

"  We've  had  jist  about  enough  sass  from  our 
young  friend,  I  think;  he's  nothin'  but  a  hewer  of 


I24  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

wood  and  a  drawer  of  water  for  us  anyhow.  Doesn't 
the  Bible  tell  servants  like  him  for  to  be  obedient  to 
their  masters  ?  " 

Then  Angus's  Scotch  blood  leaped,  protesting,  to 
his  face,  and  his  soul  tore  open  his  burning  lips  as 
the  tide  bursts  a  dam  built  by  children's  hands. 

"  I  eat  honest  bread,  earned  by  honest  toil,"  he 
hotly  cried,  "  and  that  is  more  than  Mr.  Orme  can 
say.  I  would  beg  from  door  to  door  before  I  would 
munch,  as  he  does,  the  crusts  that  are  stained  with 
blood.  We  all  know  how  he  has  ground  his  working 
girls  to  the  earth,  how  he  has  refused  to  ventilate  his 
factories,  and  even  to  heat  them  decently  in  the 
winter  time.  We  all  know  how  he  has  spurned  the 
poor  and  the  needy  with  his  foot,  and  how  he  has 
crawled  upon  his  belly  before  the  rich  and  great.  I 
will  tell  you  something  about  Mr.  Orme.  It  does 
not  apply  to  all  of  you.  Some  of  you,  thank  God  ! 
have  remembered  that  your  working  men  were  hu- 
man beings  like  yourselves — you  have  helped  and 
befriended  the  sick  and  the  poor,  you  have  pensioned 
the  closing  years  of  faithful  men.  You  have  called 
yourselves  to  ask  for  our  sick  and  dying,  and  we 
have  blessed  you  for  it.  What  poor  burdened  hearts 
want  is  the  warm  heart  touch  from  your  own  hands 
or  lips,  but  Mr.  Orme  has  given  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other. 


WITH  The  EMPLOYERS  125 

«'  Mr.  Orme,  do  you  remember  Dick  Draper,  who 
was  your  boss  carder,  and  who  lives  in  a  little  house 
behind  your  mansion  ?  Do  you  remember  that  he 
worked  for  you  ten  or  fifteen  years,  and  that  you  dis- 
charged him  because  he  would  not  leave  the  Union  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  him.  Why  ?  "  answered  Orme 
huskily. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why.  A  few  months  after  you  dis- 
charged him,  partly  because  his  health  failed  and  partly 
because  you  blackballed  him  at  all  other  shops,  he 
was  still  out  of  work,  his  money  all  gone,  his  pantry 
bare,  and  his  youngest  boy  dying  of  a  slow  disease 
of  the  spine.  Some  of  us  went  to  you  and  asked 
you  to  help  us  raise  enough  to  send  him  to  Montreal 
for  treatment  that  might  save  his  life.  You  showed 
us  the  door,  and  told  us  to  tell  him  he  could  make 
his  money  like  you  made  yours.  You  said  if  the 
boy  died  it  would  be  one  mouth  less  for  Dick  to 
feed,  and  told  us  there  was  a  grand  old  maxim  about 
every  man  for  himself  and  the  devil  have  the  hinder- 
most.  As  we  were  going  down  your  splendid  avenue, 
you  shouted  that  Dick's  spine  was  stiff  enough  when 
he  joined  the  Union.  Then  you  asked  us  if  spines 
were  hereditary.  Then  you  laughed  and  your  barns 
and  your  grand  driving  sheds  echoed  back  its  cruel 
mockery." 

Orme  arose  and  started  towards  the  door. 


Ii6  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  Mr.  Chairman,  I  protest,"  he  began. 

"  Sit  doon,"  thundered  Angus,  lapsing  into  his 
native  tongue,  "  sit  doon  till  I  tell  ye  a'.  The  nicht 
Dick's  boy  was  deein',  we  went  to  ye  and  begged  ye 
to  stop  yir  music  and  yir  dancin'.  For  ye  had  some 
graun'  fowk  at  yir  pairty,  an'  the  flowers  for  it 
cost  ye  mair  nor  wad  hae  sent  the  laddie  to  Montreal. 
An'  the  noise  fashed  an'  fretted  the  deein'  bairn. 
But  ye  bade  us  begone,  an'  said  ye'd  invite  us  to  yir 
pairty  when  ye  wanted  us — an'  the  puir  laddie  dee'd 
in  his  faither's  airms  to  the  cruel  music  o'  yir  riddles 
an'  yir  reels,  an'  his  farther  sat  wi'  him  a'  the  nicht, 
croonin'  wi'  sorrow,  an'  yir  graun'  guests'  laughter 
breakin'  on  him  like  a  blizzard  frae  the  north." 

"  Is  the  sermon  nearly  done  ? "  said  Mr.  Orme, 
with  a  sneer.  "  You  missed  your  calling ;  you're  a 
preacher."  The  hot  tears  were  in  Angus'  eyes  and 
he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  Orme  was  present, 
the  taunt  lost  upon  him. 

"  I  will  say  no  more,"  turning  now  to  the  others, 
"  and  I  have  perhaps  spoken  over  warmly.  But  I 
have  uttered  no  word  other  than  the  truth.  And  1 
will  only  make  my  last  appeal,  which  I  know  will 
have  some  weight,  with  most  of  you,  at  least.  The 
remedy  for  all  this  threatening  trouble  lies  in  mutual 
sympathy,  for  I  doubt  not  you  have  your  own  diffi- 
culties, even  as  we  have  ours.  I  am  glad  to  have 


WITH  the  EMPLOYERS  127 

helped  to  allay  this  recent  trouble,  and  my  best  serv- 
ice shall  never  be  denied  you  in  the  future.  But  I 
pray  you  to  consider  the  words  of  a  man  who  wishes 
you  nothing  else  but  good.  Pardon  what  of  violence 
and  ponder  what  of  reason  has  been  mixed  with  what 
I  said.  Capital  has  its  labour,  and  labour  has  its 
capital — and  we  are  all  toilers  together." 

He  bowed  to  the  employers  and  withdrew,  but  the 
seed  his  hand  had  cast  was  fallen,  some  no  doubt  on 
rocky  ground,  but  some  also  on  good  and  honest 
soil. 

And  Angus  had  won  a  victory;  but  his  greatest 
triumph  was  unseen,  for  he  had  ruled  his  own  spirit, 
which  high  authority  assures  us  is  greater  than  the 
taking  of  a  city. 

Not  inconsiderable,  too,  were  the  outward  pledges 
of  his  victory.  For,  as  we  said,  the  sleek  agitators 
had  been  dismissed,  the  mills  and  factories  were  run- 
ning again,  and  the  industrial  tides  of  life  in  New 
Jedboro  gradually  subsided  into  their  old  channels. 

And  now  those  unseen  forces  that  are  ever  silently 
working  to  upset  old  standards  and  to  displace  old 
ways,  broke  out  in  a  new  form,  this  time  threatening 
the  very  centre  of  one  of  St.  Cuthbert's  most  estab- 
lished customs. 


XV 
A  BOLD  PROPOSAL 

I  HE  old  precentor's  box  beneath  the  pulpit 
was  still  St.  Cuthbert's  only  choir  loft. 
Many  years  back,  the  iconoclasts  among 
them  had  managed  to  gather  a  few  of  the  most  song- 
ful ones  together  in  a  front  pew,  demurely  sitting  as 
part  of  the  congregation,  but  concentrated  for  pur- 
poses of  leadership.  This  proved,  however,  more 
than  St.  Cuthbert's  could  abide,  and  its  mal-odour  of 
"  High  Church  "  alarmed  the  Scottish  Presbyterians. 
Going  down  the  aisle,  Saunders  M'Tavish  voiced  the 
general  alarm  in  sententious  tones  — 

"  The  thin  end  o'  the  wedge,"  he  warningly  ex- 
claimed, "  and  it's  no'  a  far  cry  noo  to  the  candles  an' 
the  incense.  They'll  be  bringin'  ower  the  pope 
next,"  and  the  kirk  session,  convening  the  next 
night,  soon  stopped  that  leakage  in  their  ancestral 
dyke. 

Since  then  the  precentor's  box  had  preserved  its 
lonely  splendour.  Within  it,  in  the  far-back  thun- 
derous days  of  their  great  Boanerges,  the  precentor 
stood  to  lead  the  swelling  psalm  as  it  rose  from  the 

128 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  129 

seated  multitude — for  they  stood  to  pray,  but  sat 
to  sing.  From  the  fast-gathering  mists  that  now 
threaten  those  receding  years,  surviving  ones  still 
rescue  images  of  the  precentor's  ruffled  locks,  swept 
by  the  pentecostal  swirl — so  seemed  it  to  his  worship- 
pers— of  Dr.  Grant's  Geneva  gown.  And  in  this 
same  box  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  appeared  the  stal- 
wart form  of  Archie  M'Cormack,  modern  in  nothing 
but  his  years. 

His  was  a  conservatism  of  the  intense  and  pas- 
sionate sort ;  not  the  choice  of  his  judgment,  but  the 
deepest  element  of  his  life.  He  no  more  chose  old 
ways,  old  paths,  or  the  spirit  of  earlier  times,  than 
the  trout  chooses  water  or  the  Polar  bear  its  native 
snows.  He  was  born  not  among  them,  but  of  them, 
and  remained  till  death  their  incarnate  descendant. 
No  mere  Scotch  kirkman  was  Archie,  but  a  prehis- 
toric Calvinist,  a  Presbyterian  by  the  act  of  God  and 
an  elder  from  all  eternity.  Even  his  youthful 
thoughts  and  imaginations  adjusted  themselves  to 
the  scope  of  the  Westminster  Confession,  abhorring 
any  horizon  unillumined  by  the  gray  light  which 
flowed  in  mathematical  exactitude  from  a  hypothet- 
ical heart  in  the  Shorter  Catechism. 

Although,  strangely  enough,  Archie  could  never 
master  the  catechism.  A  random  question  was  his 
doom.  Catechise  him  straight  through,  and  his  re- 


130  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

sponse  was  swift  and  accurate.  No  thrust  availed 
against  him,  a  knight  invincible  in  his  well-pieced 
coat  of  mail,  a  very  dragon  of  orthodoxy  from  whose 
lips  there  issued  clouds  of  Calvinism,  till  the  minister 
himself  was  often  well-nigh  obscured  thereby.  But 
once  dip  Archie  into  the  middle  of  its  mighty  bosom 
to  search  an  answer  there,  and  he  would  never  reap- 
pear, or,  if  he  haply  might,  it  would  be  with  sorry 
fragments  of  divers  answers  in  his  hands,  incongruous 
to  absurdity.  Is  not  the  same  true  of  babbling 
guides  in  old  cathedrals  ? 

"  What  is  sin  ?  "  the  minister  once  suddenly  asked 
Archie  in  the  course  of  catechetical  visitation,  the 
district  being  assembled  at  one  central  house. 
Archie's  answer,  being  a  mosaic,  is  still  quoted  by 
those  who  heard  it,  terror-stricken  where  they  sat. 

"  Sin,"  replied  the  wide-gleaning  man,  "  is  an  act 
of  God's  free  grace,  infinite,  eternal,  and  unchange- 
able in  its  full  purpose  of  and  endeavour  after  new 
obedience." 

This  terrible  and  miscellaneous  eruption  was  the 
more  lamentable  from  the  fact  that  his  poor  wife 
heard  this  blare  of  discordant  dogmas  with  unbeliev- 
ing ears,  while  even  little  Kirsty  gasped,  exclaiming 
above  her  breath,  "  Ye're  sair  muddled,  faither." 

Archie  looked  vacantly  from  wife  to  daughter,  like 
one  who  has  let  something  drop.  Then  gazing  de- 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  131 

spondently  at  the  minister's  struggling  face,  he  said, 
"  I'm  feart  that's  no'  jist  richt  in  a'  its  parteeklars." 
The  epilogue  was  worse  than  the  tragedy.  A  grim 
Presbyterian  smile  went  round,  more  vocal  than  the 
echoing  laughter  of  less  silent  sects,  and  it  smote  on 
Archie's  ears  like  the  scorners'  bray.  Forward  went 
the  catechism,  a  penitential  gloom  succeeding  the 
sinful  indulgence.  The  Scottish  sun  dips  suddenly. 

Sober  enough  now  are  the  faces  from  which  all  mer- 
riment has  fled,  forgetting  the  precentor's  discom- 
fiture, and  looking  only  to  their  own  deliverance 
from  the  guns  now  turned  against  themselves.  But 
Archie  did  not  forget — into  a  secret  Scottish  place  he 
had  retreated,  his  hot,  burning  heart  forging  some 
weapon  of  revenge.  It  was  ready  in  due  time.  An 
hour  after,  just  before  the  armistice  which  the  bene- 
diction alone  made  sure,  he  turned  upon  the  honest 
rustics  with  a  look  of  belated  triumph  in  his  face,  and 
slew  them  with  the  retort  which  long  travail  had 
brought  forth. 

"  A'm  no'  sae  gleg  on  the  subject  o'  sin  as  some 
fowk  I  ken." 

The  minister,  by  aid  of  special  grace,  said  nothing. 
Archie,  although  he  held  solemnly  on  his  way 
through  the  benediction,  as  became  a  precentor,  yet 
chuckled  exultantly  all  the  homeward  road.  At 
evening  worship  he  selected  the  Twenty-seventh 


132  57.   CUTHBERT'S 

Psalm  and  sang  the  second  verse  with  rejoicing 
unction  — 

"  Whereas  mine  enemies  and  foes, 

Most  wicked  persons  all, 
To  eat  my  flesh  against  me  rose, 
They  stumbled  and  did  fall," 

and  the  honest  rustics,  as  they  sought  the  cover  of 
their  homes  with  emancipated  feet,  pronounced  one 
to  the  other  that  most  Scotch  of  all  Scottish  verdicts, 
half  of  eulogy  and  half  of  condemnation :  "  He's  a 
lad,  is  Airchie.  Ay,  Airchie's  a  lad  to  be  sure." 


What  sleuth-hounds  women  are  in  matters  of  the 
heart!  How  quickly  they  take  the  scent  of  any 
path,  virgin  though  it  be,  if  that  path  hath  been 
touched  by  the  very  feet  of  love,  tracing  its  devious 
course  with  passionate  inerrancy. 

I  thought  the  news  trifling,  when  I  told  my  wife 
that  Angus  and  our  Margaret  had  appeared  before 
St.  Cuthbert's  session  to  present  a  certain  prayer. 
My  mind  was  taken  up  exclusively  with  the  request 
they  proffered.  But  Margaret's  mother  was  uncon- 
cerned with  their  plea.  Of  the  pleaders  she  thought 
alone.  Divers  questions  she  flung  forth  at  me, 
furtive  all,  their  author  in  ambush  all  the  while. 

"  Did  they  seem  interested  in  each  other  ?  "  was  the 


A   BOLD  PROPOSAL  133 

burden  of  them  all ;  for,  though  she  avoided  plain- 
ness of  speech,  I  could  yet  detect  her  hidden  fear. 

But  I  must  turn  from  this  and  tell  of  the  enterprise 
in  whose  interest  Margaret  and  Angus  bearded  the 
lions  of  St.  Cuthbert's  in  their  den.  They  repre- 
sented the  Young  People's  Guild,  and  presented  the 
startling  request  that  the  old  kirk  should  henceforth 
employ  an  organ  to  aid  the  service  of  praise  on  the 
Sabbath  day.  And  they  further  asked  for  the  intro- 
duction of  the  hymns.  This  implied  a  revolution, 
for  St.  Cuthbert's,  up  to  this  time,  had  resolutely  re- 
sisted all  attempts  to  hallow  such  profanities. 

For  the  youthful  pair  of  revolutionists  I  felt  a 
decided  sympathy,  such  as  pervades  every  generous 
heart  when  it  beholds  the  dauntless  approach  of 
David  towards  Goliath.  Such  citadels  of  orthodoxy, 
such  Gibraltars  of  conservatism  as  Archie  was,  were 
almost  all  the  elders  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  And  against 
them  all  united  did  Angus  and  Margaret  dare  to 
turn  their  poor  artillery  of  persuasion. 

The  session  received  them  cordially,  having  all 
goodwill  towards  them  personally,  hating  the  sin 
but  loving  the  sinners,  to  employ  a  good  old 
theological  phrase.  Angus  began,  adroitly  enough, 
with  a  eulogy  of  the  psalms  and  paraphrases,  defin- 
ing them  as  the  mountain  peaks  of  song  in  all  ages 
and  in  every  tongue. 


134  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  In  far-distant  Scotland  my  mother  is  singing 
them  to-night,"  he  said,  "  and  I  catch  the  glow 
and  the  sweetness  of  the  heather  when  the  kirk 
rings  with  their  high  refrain  ilka  Sabbath  day.  But 
we  feel  that  the  hymns,  even  if  they  be  inferior,  will 
add  richness  and  variety  to  the  service  of  our  beloved 
kirk." 

As  for  the  organ,  he  contended  that  it  was  only  a 
means  towards  an  end,  man-made  though  it  was  ;  for 
these  stern  men  were  rigid  in  their  distinction  be- 
tween things  made  with  hands  and  things  inspired. 

Angus  quoted  Scripture  on  behalf  of  the  organ 
plea,  recalling  David's  use  of  instrumental  music  and 
quoting  the  Ninety -second  Psalm  — 

"  Upon  a  ten-stringed  instrument 
•    And  on  the  psaltery, 
Upon  the  harp  with  solemn  sound 
And  grave,  sweet  melody." 

I  then  called  upon  Margaret,  and  my  heart  mis- 
gave me  as  I  spoke  her  name,  for  she  was  full  of 
pathetic  hopefulness,  and  seemed  to  think  that 
Angus 's  argument  had  settled  things  beyond  appeal. 
But  I  knew  better  than  she  what  spray  could  do  with 
frowning  rocks.  The  elders,  too,  smiled  tenderly 
upon  her,  for  they  were  chivalrous  in  their  solemn 
way,  and  besides,  she  was  what  you  might  call  the 
church's  first-born  child,  the  story  of  which  I  have 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  135 

already  told.  But  theirs  was  a  kind  of  executioners' 
smile,  for  they  were  iron-blooded  men,  who  felt  that 
they  had  heard  but  now  the  trumpeting  of  the 
enemy  at  the  gate. 

Margaret  timidly  expressed  the  view  that  she 
need,  and  would,  add  nothing  more,  "  for,"  she 
concluded,  "  Mr.  Strachan  has  covered  the  ground 
completely."  This  phrase  "  covered  the  ground  "  I 
do  not  believe  she  had  ever  used  before,  but  every 
true  child  of  the  manse  and  the  kirk  is  born  its 
legitimate  heir.  "  The  previous  question "  is  an- 
other matter,  and  can  be  acquired  only  through 
laborious  years.  It  takes  even  a  moderator  all 
his  time  to  explain  it;  before  most  Presbyteries 
quite  master  it,  death  moves  it — and  then  they 
understand. 

Poor  Margaret  seemed  to  think  that  Angus  had 
made  out  a  case  which  no  elder  could  successfully 
assail.  She  knew  not  that  there  are  some  matters 
which  Scotch  elders  consider  it  impious  even  to  dis- 
cuss, holding  in  scorn  the  flaccid  axiom  that  there 
are  two  sides  to  every  question. 

The  youthful  petitioners  withdrew,  and  the  session 
indulged  itself  in  a  long  silence,  their  usual  mode  of 
signifying  that  important  business  was  before  them. 

The  first  to  speak  was  Ronald  M'Gregor :  "  We'll 
no'  be  needin'  a  motion,"  he  said,  by  way  of  indicat- 


136  ST.    CUT HBER  T'S 

ing  that  there  could  be  no  two  opinions  on  the  matter 
in  hand. 

"  We'll  hae  to  move  that  the  peteetion  be  re- 
jeckit,"  said  Elder  M'Tavish,  nodding  his  head  to 
signify  his  agreement  with  Ronald's  main  contention. 

"  The  puir  bodies  mean  richt,"  he  added,  being 
distinguished  for  Christian  charity. 

The  motion  was  as  good  as  agreed  to,  silent  con- 
sent appearing  upon  every  face,  when  Michael  Blake 
arose. 

"  I  move  in  amendment,  that  the  young  people's 
request  be  referred  to  a  committee,  with  a  view  to  its 
favourable  consideration." 

"  I  second  that,"  said  Sandy  Grant,  the  session 
clerk,  "  not  thereby  committin'  masel'  to  its  spirit, 
but  to  bring  it  afore  the  court  in  regular  order." 

"  What  for  div  we  need  anither  motion  ? "  said 
Thomas  Laidlaw,  evidently  perplexed.  "  There's 
nane  o'  us  gaun  to  gie  in  to  thae  man-made  hymes 
— an'  their  kist  o'  whustles  wad  be  fair  redeek'lus." 

"  Let  us  hear  what  they  have  to  say  in  its  behalf," 
said  Mr.  Blake.  "  Every  honest  man  should  be  open 
to  conviction." 

"  We're  a'  honest  men,"  replied  Thomas,  "  an' 
we're  a'  open  to  conviction,  but  I  houp  nane  o'  us 
'11  be  weak  eneuch  to  be  convickit.  Oor  faithers 
wadna  hae  been  convickit." 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  137 

"  It'll  dae  nae  harm  to  hear  the  argyments,"  said 
Andrew  Hogg,  the  silent  member  of  the  session. 

At  this  juncture,  fearing  what  Saunders  M'Tavish 
had  long  ago  called  the  thin  edge  o'  the  wedge, 
Archie  M'Cormack,  the  precentor,  came  forward 
in  hot  alarm,  championing  the  hosts  of  orthodoxy. 

"  The  session  '11  mebbe  listen  to  me,  for  I've  been 
yir  precentor  these  mony  years.  We'll  hae  nae  mair 
o'  thae  havers.  Wha  wants  their  hymes  ?  Naebody 
excep'  a  wheen  o'  gigglin'  birkies.  Gie  them  the 
hymes,  an'  we'll  hear  Martyrdom  nae  mair,  an' 
Coleshill  an'  Duke  Street  '11  be  by.  For  what  did 
oor  faithers  dee  if  it  wasna  for  the  psalms  o'  Dauvit  ? 
An'  they  dee'd  to  the  tunes  I've  named  to  ye." 

"  But  Mr.  M'Cormack  will  admit,"  said  Mr.  Blake, 
"  that  many  of  God's  people  worship  to  profit  with 
the  hymns.  There  is  the  Episcopal  church  across 
the  way.  Last  Sabbath  I  am  told  their  soprano 
sang  '  Lead,  kindly  Light,'  and  it  was  well  received." 

"  Wha  receivit  it  ?  "  thundered  Archie.  "  Tell  me 
that,  sir.  Wha  receivit  it  ?  Was  it  Almichty  God, 
or  was  it  the  itchin'  lugs  o'  deein'  men,  aye  heark- 
enin'  to  thae  skirlin'  birkies  wi'  their  men-made 
hymes  ?  " 

"  Mr.  M'Cormack  is  severe,"  replied  Michael  Blake 
serenely,  "  but  I  think  he  is  unnecessarily  alarmed ; 
we  must  keep  our  service  up  to  date.  As  the  session 


138  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

knows,  I  have  always  been  in  favour,  for  instance,  of 
the  modern  fashion  of  special  services  at  Christmas, 
Eastertide,  and  kindred  seasons.  And  at  such  times 
we  ought  to  have  a  little  special  music." 

"  Up  to  date  !  "  retorted  Archie  scornfully ;  "  it's  a 
sair  date  an'  a  deein'  ane.  It'll  dee  the  nicht,  an' 
there'll  be  a  new  ane  the  morn,  an'  wha  ever  heard 
tell-o'  an  Easter  Sabbath  in  the  Kirk  o'  Scotland? 
It'll  dae  weel  eneuch  for  thae  dissentin'  bodies,  wi' 
their  prayer-books,  but  what  hae  we,  wi'  the  psalm- 
buik,  an'  a  regular  ministry,  an'  a  regular  kirk,  to  dae 
wi'  siclike  follies  ?  Ilka  Sabbath  day  is  Easter  day, 
I'm  tellin'  ye.  Is  oor  Lord  no'  aye  risin'  frae  the 
dead  ?  Gin  a  soul  braks  intil  new  life,  or  a  deein' 
man  pillows  his  weary  heid  on  Him,  or  the  heavy- 
herted  staun'  up  in  His  michty  strength,  ye  hae  yir 
Easter  Sabbath;  an'  that's  ilka  Sabbath,  I'm  sayin'. 
Nane  o'  yir  enawmelled  bit  toys  for  Presbyterian 
fowk." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  interfere  with  the  good  old 
Presbyterian  ways,"  responded  Mr.  Blake;  for  the 
elders  seemed  to  have  committed  the  entire  debate 
to  those  two  representatives  of  the  old  school  and  the 
new.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  the  whole  Christian  re- 
ligion is  a  religion  of  change,"  he  continued ;  "  the 
new  path,  the  new  and  living  way,  the  new  covenant, 
the  new  name,  the  new  song — and  the  new  heart," 


A  BOLD  PROPOSAL  139 

he  concluded  fervently.  Then  a  moment  later  he 
added,  "  Thank  God  for  that !  "  and  the  elders  looked 
at  him  in  astonishment,  for  his  face  bore  again  that 
look  of  anguish  and  remorse  to  which  I  have  referred 
before,  the  oft-recurring  evidence  of  some  bitter 
secret,  deep  hidden  in  his  heart. 

"  We  understaun'  fine,"  the  session  clerk  appended. 
"  Mr.  Blake  is  only  contending  that  there  are  two 
sides  to  every  question." 

"  Twa  sides  ! "  shouted  the  precentor,  now  on  his 
feet  again,  "there's  mair  nor  twa.  There's  three 
sides  to  ilka  question  :  there's  yir  ain  side,  an'  there's 
my  side,  an'  there's  God's  side,"  he  added  almost 
fiercely ;  "  an'  when  I  ken  God's  side,  there's  nae 
ither  side  ava." 

The  debate  was  not  continued  long,  and  closed 
with  the  compromise  that  Mr.  Blake's  motion  should 
prevail,  the  whole  matter  to  be  referred  to  a  com- 
mittee composed  of  Mr.  Blake,  the  precentor,  the 
moderator,  and  the  clerk,  no  report  to  be  made  to 
the  kirk  session  unless  the  committee  was  unani- 
mous in  its  finding.  This  committee  was  instructed 
to  meet  and  confer  with  the  representatives  of  the 
Young  People's  Guild. 

While  this  resolution  was  being  recorded,  Archie 
was  still  indulging  in  smothered  protests,  the  dying 
voice  of  the  thunder-storm ;  and  as  the  session  dis- 


140  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

persed  he  was  heard  to  say,  "  Committee  or  no  com- 
mittee, as  lang  as  I'm  in  the  kirk  they'll  sing  the 
psalms  o'  Dauvit — an'  the  tunes  o'  Dauvit  tae." 

The  next  evening  I  informed  Angus  of  the  ses- 
sion's action,  and  told  him  the  names  of  the  commit- 
tee. When  I  mentioned  that  of  Mr.  Blake,  his  eyes 
flashed  fire,  and  in  bitter  tones  he  said,  "  I  will  meet 
no  committee  of  which  that  man  is  one.  I  hate 
him,  sir.  I  would  as  lief  confer  with  the  devil  as 
with  him." 

This  staggered  me.  I  knew  no  cause  for  an  out- 
burst so  passionate,  nor  any  provocation  for  a  resent- 
ment so  savage  and  so  evidently  real.  My  attempt 
to  question  him  concerning  either  met  with  an  abrupt 
but  final  refusal.  Concerning  these  things  I  said 
nothing  to  Margaret  or  her  mother,  but  kept  them 
all  and  pondered  them  in  my  heart. 


XVI 

GEORDIE'S   OOT-TURN 

IT  was  Geordie  Lorimer  who  first  taught  me  to 
curl.  This  I  still  reckon  a  great  kindness,  for  I 
have  gone  from  strength  to  strength  till  I  am 
now  upon  the  verge  of  tankard  skiphood.  Besides, 
Geordie's  besetting  sin  still  clinging  close,  I  had 
hoped  in  this  social  way  the  more  readily  to  win  his 
friendship,  with  a  view  to  his  deliverance. 

Some  of  the  old  elders  looked  askance  at  my 
frivolity,  for  Sanderson's  "  Mountain  Dew "  flowed 
freely  at  every  bonspiel,  and  it  was  generally  under- 
stood that  all  bigoted  teetotalism  was  justly  suspended 
till  the  ice  vanished  in  the  spring.  These  aforesaid 
elders  had  no  sympathy  with  men  who  tasted  stand- 
ing up,  or  who  took  their  "  Mountain  Dew "  un- 
warmed. 

They  would  gravely  quote  the  scriptural  admo- 
nition that  all  things  should  be  done  decently  and  in 
order,  adding  the  exposition,  logically  deduced,  that 
the  more  important  the  transaction,  the  more  impera- 
tive that  order  and  decency  should  be  observed.  For 
which  reason  they  took  their  whisky  hot,  and  hal- 
lowed by  the  gentler  name  of  "  toddy."  At  even- 
Mi 


142  57.   CUTHBERT'S 

tide  they  took  it,  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  theii 
own  firesides,  and  immediately  after  family  worship. 
Many  a  time  and  oft  the  very  lips  which  fervently 
sang  the  psalm  — 

"  Like  Hermon's  dew,  the  dew  that  doth," 

were  the  same  that  sampled  Sanderson's  with  solemn 
satisfaction. 

The  session  clerk  once  presented  to  the  court  a 
letter  from  a  worthy  but  wandering  temperance 
orator,  craving  permission  to  give  his  celebrated  "  dog 
talk  "  in  St.  Cuthbert's  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon. 

"  I  move  that  the  kirk  be  no'  granted,"  said  Archie 
M'Cormack.  "  He'll  be  revilin'  the  ways  o'  men  far 
abune  him.  Ma  faither  aye  took  a  drappy  ilka  nicht, 
haudin'  his  bonnet  in  his  haun'  the  while.  He  wad 
drink  the  health  o'  Her  Majesty  ('  God  bless  her/  he 
aye  said),  and  mebbe  ane  to  the  auld  kirk  in  bonnie 
Scotland,  an'  mebbe  ane  to  the  laddies  wha  used  to 
rin  wi'  him  aboot  the  braes,  an'  mebbe  then  he  wad 
hae  jist  ane  mair  to  Her  Majesty,  for  ma  faither  was 
aye  uncommon  loyal  at  the  hinner  end.  But  atween 
him  an'  ma  mither  he  aye  kent  fine  when  to  stop. 

"  An'  a'  oor  faithers  tasted  afore  they  gaed  to  bed, 
an'  they  a'  dee'd  wi'  their  faces  to  the  licht ;  an'  I 
wadna  gie  ane  o'  them  for  a  wheen  o'  yir  temperance 
haverers  wi'  their  dog  talks  on  the  Sabbath  day." 


GEORDIE'S  OOT-TURN  143 

"  I  second  that,"  said  Ronald  M'Gregor.  "  The 
injudeecious  use  o'  speerits,  or  o'  ony  ither  needces- 
sity,  is  no'  to  be  commendit,  but  the  Sabbath  he's 
askin'  '11  be  the  sacrament,  and  that's  no  day  for  dog 
talkin',  I'm  thinkin'  " — and  the  motion  carried  unani- 
mously. 

****** 

"  How's  the  ice  to-day  ?  "  I  asked  Thomas  Laid- 
law,  one  winter's  afternoon. 

"  Fair  graun',"  replied  the  solemn  Thomas.  "  Ye'll 
never  throw  a  stane  on  better  till  ye  draw  by  yir  last 
gaird  ;  'twad  dae  fine  for  the  New  Jerusalem." 

"  You  don't  think  there'll  be  curling  there, 
Thomas  ?  "  I  said. 

"  I  dinna  ken,"  he  answered,  "  but  I'm  no'  de- 
spairin'.  They  aye  speak  o't  as  a  land  where  ever- 
lasting spring  abides  ;  but  I  hae  ma  doots.  There'll 
be  times  when  the  ice'll  hold,  I'm  thinkin'.  Yon 
crystal  river's  no'  for  naethin'." 

Geordie  Lorimer  was  my  skip  that  day,  and  soon 
the  armoured  floor  was  echoing  to  the  "  roarin' 
game,"  the  largest,  noblest,  brotherliest  game  known 
to  mortal  men.  The  laird  and  the  cottar  were  there, 
the  homely  shepherd  and  the  village  snab  who 
cobbled  his  shoes,  the  banker  and  the  carter,  the 
manufacturer  and  the  mechanic — all  on  that  oft- 
quoted  platform  which  is  built  alone  of  curlers'  ice. 


144  ST.    CUTHBER  T S 

"  Lay  me  a  pat-lid  richt  here,  man.  Soop  her  up 
— soop,  soop,  man.  Get  her  by  the  gaird.  Let  her 
be.  I'm  wrang,  bring  her  ben  the  hoose.  Stop — 
stop,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Noo,  soop,  soop  her  in,  man." 

"  Noo,  minister,  be  up  this  time,"  cries  Geordie. 
"  Soop,  soop  her  up.  That's  a  graun'  yin,  minister. 
Shake  ye  yir  ain  hatin'.  Gin  yir  sermons  were 
deleevered  like  yir  stanes,  there  wadna  be  an  empty 
seat  i'  the  kirk.  Lat  her  dee,  she's  ower  fiery. 
That'll  dae  fine  for  a  gaird,  an'  Tam'll  be  fashed  to 
get  roun'  ye." 

Thus  roared  the  game  along,  and  at  its  close 
Geordie  and  I  were  putting  our  stones  away  together, 
flushed  with  victory.  The  occasion  seemed  favour- 
able for  the  moral  influence  which  it  was  my  constant 
aim  to  exercise. 

"  By  the  way,  Geordie,"  I  began,  "  I  have  not  seen 
you  in  the  kirk  of  late." 

"What's  that?"  said  Geordie,  his  invariable 
challenge,  securing  time  to  adjust  himself  for  the  en- 
counter. 

"  I  have  missed  you  nearly  all  winter  from  the 
church  on  the  Sabbath  day,"  I  replied,  leaving  no 
room  for  further  uncertainty. 

Geordie  capitulated  slowly :  "  I'll  grant  ye  I've 
no'  been  by-ord'nar  regglar,"  he  admitted,  "  but  I 
hae  a  guid  excuse.  I  haena  been  ower  weel.  Ma 


GEORDIE'S  OOT-TURN  145 

knee's  been  sair.  To  tell  ye  the  truth,  minister,  half 
the  time  'twas  a'  I  could  dae  to  get  doon  to  curl." 

I  sighed  heavily  and  said  no  more,  for  Geordie 
was  hopelessly  sincere  in  his  idea  of  first  things 
first. 

The  very  next  night  I  was  sitting  quietly  in  my 
study,  talking  to  Margaret  and  Angus,  though  I  was 
beginning  to  suspect  already  that  they  had  come  to 
endure  my  absence  with  heroic  fortitude. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  door-bell  rang,  and  I 
answered  it  myself.  It  was  Geordie's  distracted  wife! 
Leading  her  to  the  drawing-room,  I  asked  her  mis- 
sion, though  her  pale  and  care-rung  face  left  little 
room  for  doubt. 

"  Wad  ye  think  it  bold  o'  me,  sir,  gin  I  was  to  ask 
you  to  find  Geordie  an'  fetch  him  hame  ?  He's  off 
sin'  yestere'en." 

"  Why,  it  was  only  yesterday  evening  I  saw  him  on 
the  ice." 

"  Ay,  sir,  but  he  winned  the  game,  an'  that's  aye  a 
loss  for  Geordie ;  he  aye  tak's  himsel'  to  the  tavern 
when  he  wins.  Oh,  sir,  ma  hairt's  fair  broken ;  it's  a 
twalmonth  this  verra  nicht  sin'  oor  wee  Jessie  dee'd, 
an'  I  was  aye  lippenin'  to  that  to  bring  him  till  him- 
sel' ;  but  he  seems  waur  nor  ever — he  seeks  to  droon 
his  sorrow  wi'  the  drink." 

I  had  often  marvelled  at  this ;  for  Geordie's  last 


146  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

word  to  his  little  daughter  had  been  a  promise  to 
meet  her  in  the  land  o'  the  leal.  But  it  is  not  chains 
alone  that  make  a  slave. 

After  a  little  further  conversation,  I  sent  the  poor 
woman  home,  assuring  her  that  I  would  do  the  best 
I  could  for  Geordie.  Which  promise  I  proceeded  to 
fulfill.  Two  or  three  of  his  well-known  resorts  had 
been  visited  with  fruitless  quest,  when  I  repaired  to 
the  Maple  Leaf,  a  notoriously  sunken  hole,  which 
thus  blasphemed  the  name  of  the  fairest  emblem  of 
the  nations.  I  observed  a  few  sorry  wastrels  leaning 
in  maudlin  helplessness  upon  the  bar  as  I  pressed  in, 
still  cleaving  to  their  trough — but  Geordie  was  not 
among  them.  I  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  I 
heard  a  familiar  voice,  above  the  noise  of  a  phono- 
graph, from  one  of  the  rooms  just  above  the  bar.  It 
was  Geordie's. 

"  Gie  us  '  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,'  "  I  heard  him 
cry,  with  drunken  unction.  "  Gin  ye  haena  ane  o' 
the  psalms  o'  Dauvit  i'  yir  kist  o'  tunes,  mak'  the 
creetur  play  '  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee.'  " 

Here  was  Geordie's  evil  genius  in  evidence  again, 
his  profligacy  and  his  piety  hand  in  hand.  Ascend- 
ing the  stairs,  I  reached  the  door  just  in  time  to  see 
the  landlord,  manipulator  of  the  musical  machine, 
forcing  Geordie  to  the  door,  one  hand  gripping  his 
throat,  the  other  buffeting  the  helpless  wretch  in  the 


GEORD/E'S    OOT-TURN          147 

face.  Two  or  three  of  his  unspeakable  kindred  were 
applauding  him. 

"  Get  out  of  here,  you  beast,"  he  muttered 
savagely,  "  and  let  decent  folk  enjoy  themselves. 
You'll  not  get  no  music  nor  no  whisky  either, 
hangfin'  round  an  honest  man's  house  without  a 

o 

penny  in  your  pocket — get  out,  you  brute."  And  he 
struck  him  full  in  the  face  again. 

It  were  wrong  to  say  that  I  forgot  I  was  a  minister ; 
I  think  I  recalled  that  very  thing,  and  it  gave  more 
power  to  my  arm,  for  I  knew  the  poverty  amid 
which  Geordie's  poor  wife  strove  to  keep  their  home 
together;  and  the  pitiful  bareness  of  wee  Jessie's 
death-chamber  flashed  before  me.  This  well- 
nourished  vampire  had  sucked  the  life-blood  from 
them  all,  and  remembering  this,  I  rushed  into  the  un- 
equal conflict  and  smote  the  vampire  between  his 
greedy  eyes  with  such  fervour  that  he  fell  where  he 
stood.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  but 
my  ministry  with  him  was  not  complete,  and  I 
seized  him  where  he  had  gripped  his  own  victim,  by 
the  throat. 

"  Let  me  be.  Remember  you're  a  minister,"  he 
gasped. 

"  God  forbid  I  should  forget,"  I  thundered  back, 
for  my  blood  was  hot.  I  remembered  just  then  that 
wee  Jessie  had  been  dependent  on  charity  for  the 


148  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

little  delicacies  that  go  with  death ;  "  and  if  God 
helps  me  you  won't  forget  it  either,"  with  which 
addition  I  hurled  him  down  the  stairs,  his  final  ar- 
rival signalled  back  by  the  sulphurous  aroma  of 
bruised  and  battered  maledictions. 

It  may  be  incidentally  inserted  here  that  this  un- 
clerical  encounter  of  mine  was  afterwards  referred  to 
at  a  meeting  of  St.  Cuthbert's  session.  One  of  the 
elders,  never  very  friendly  to  me,  preferred  the  charge 
of  conduct  unbecoming  a  minister.  Only  two  of  his 
colleagues  noticed  the  indictment,  and  they  both 
were  elders  of  the  old  Scotch  school. 

"  Oor  minister's  fine  at  the  castin'  doon  o'  the 
strongholds  o'  Satan,"  said  the  one ;  "  it  minds  me  o' 
what  the  beasts  got  i'  the  temple." 

"  It's  mebbe  no'  Solomon's  exact  words,  but  it's 
gey  like  them :  '  A  time  to  pit  on  the  goon  an'  a 
time  to  tak'  aff  the  coat ' — an'  it's  the  yae  kin'  o'  pro- 
heebeetion  that's  ony  guid  forbye,"  said  the  other. 

The  groaning  landlord  was  soon  removed  by  the 
loving  hands  of  his  wife  and  the  hostler ;  and  as  I 
convoyed  Geordie  out  past  their  family  sitting-room, 
tenderly  so  called,  the  phonograph  breathed  out  the 
last  expiring  strains  of  "  Wull  ye  no'  come  back 
again  ?  "  which  the  aforesaid  landlord  had  selected  in 
preference  to  Geordie's  pious  choice. 

Measures  for  the  sufferer's  relief  had  been  swift ; 


GEORDIE'S    OOT-TURN          149 

the  air  was  already  rich  with  the  fumes  of  high 
wines,  the  versatile  healer  of  internal  griefs  and  ex- 
ternal wounds  alike. 

When  Geordie  and  I  were  well  upon  the  street  a 
new  difficulty  presented  itself. 

"  It's  a  sair  shock,  an'  it'll  kill  the  wife,"  I  heard 
him  muttering  beneath  his  breath. 

This  gave  me  some  little  hope,  for  I  detected  in  it 
the  beauty  of  penitence. 

"  Your  wife  will  forgive  you,  Geordie,"  I  began ; 
"  and  if  this  will  only  teach " 

But  he  stopped  me ;  his  face  showed  that  he  had 
been  sorely  misunderstood. 

"  Forgie  me — forgie  me !  It's  no'  me  she'll  hae 
till  forgie.  Are  ye  no'  the  minister  o'  St.  Cuthbert's  ? 
Ah,  ye  canna  deny  that.  I  ken  that  fine.  I  kent  ye 
as  sune  as  ye  cam'  slippin'  ben  the  taivern.  It'll  fair 
kill  the  wife." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  I  said  testily. 

"  To  think  I  wad  live  to  see  my  ain  minister  slip- 
pin'  by  intil  a  taivern  at  sic  a  time  o'  nicht,"  he 
groaned  despondingly. 

Then  he  turned  upon  me,  his  voice  full  of  sad 
reproof:.  "I'm  no'  what  I  micht  be  masel',  but  I 
dinna  mak'  no  profession ;  but  to  think  I'd  catch  my 
ain  minister  hangin'  roon'  a  taivern  at  this  time  o' 
nicht.  It'll  kill  the  wife.  She  thocht  the  warld  o'  ye." 


150  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

What  the  man  was  driving  at  was  slowly  borne  in 
upon  me. 

"  But  you  do  not  understand,  Geordie,"  I  began. 

He  stopped  me  again :  "  Dinna  mak'  it  waur  wi' 
yir  explanations.  I  un'erstaun'  fine.  I  un'erstaun' 
noo  why  they  ca'  ye  a  feenished  preacher — ye're 
damn  weel  feenished  for  me  an'  Betsy.  An'  gin  I 
tell  hoo  I  fun'  ye  oot  (which  I'm  no*  sayin'  I'll  dae), 
ilka  sate  i'  the  kirk  will  be  empty  the  comin'  Sabbath 
day.  Ye're  a  wolf  in  sheep's  claes,  an'  I'm  sair  at 
hairt  the  nicht." 

I  saw  the  useless  ness  of  any  attempt  to  enlighten 
him,  for  he  was  evidently  sincere  in  his  illusion,  and 
the  spirit  of  real  grief  could  be  detected,  mingling 
with  another  which  poisoned  the  air  at  every  breath. 
Whereupon  I  left  him  to  himself  as  we  walked  along, 
Geordie  swaying  gently,  overcome  by  the  experi- 
ences of  the  departed  hour. 

"  It  maun  hae  a  fearfu'  haud  o'  ye  when  ye  cam' 
oot  at  sic  an  oor,"  he  said  at  length,  half  to  himself. 
"  But  it  clean  spiled  a  graun'  nicht  for  me  to  see  ye 
slippin'  ben.  It  was  a  graun'  nicht  up  till  that.  I 
canna  jist  mind  if  it  was  a  funeral  or  a  weddin' — 
but  it  was  fair  graun'.  We  drinkit  the  health  o' 
ane  anither  till  there  wasna  ache  or  pain  amangst 
us,  but  this  spiles  it  a'  for  me.  An'  it'll  kiH  the 
wife." 


GEORDIE'S    OOT-TURN         151 

"  You  will  see  it  differently,"  I  could  not  help  but 
say ;  "  you  know  well  how  I  have  tried  to  help  you 
and  tried  to  comfort  your  poor  wife." 

"  That's  what  I  aye  thocht  till  noo,"  he  responded 
plaintively.  "  I  was  sayin'  that  same  thing  this  verra 
nicht  to  ane  o'  my  freens  at  the  taivern  afore  ye  cam'. 
It  was  auld  Tarn  Rutherford,  wha's  gaun  to  be  mairrit 
again,  and  him  mair  nor  auchty  years  o'  age.  I 
warnt  him  against  it,  an'  I  telt  him  his  ither  wumman 
was  deid  but  sax  months.  But  Tarn  said  as  hoo  a 
buddy  at  his  age  canna  afford  to  wait  ower  lang,  an' 
I  didna  ken  what  answer  to  gie  to  that." 

Then  Geordie  stopped,  evidently  resuming  the 
quest  for  an  appropriate  reply;  for  Scotch  wit  is 
usually  posthumous,  their  responses  serial  and  their 
arguments  continued  in  their  next. 

I  was  naturally  curious  as  to  what  part  I  could 
have  had  in  this  discussion,  and  since  Geordie  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  original  subject,  I  asked,  "  What 
has  that  to  do  with  my  trying  to  help  or  comfort 
anybody  ?  " 

"  Ou  ay,"  he  resumed.  "  Tarn  was  sayin'  as  hoo 
he'd  no'  hae  yirsel'  to  mairry  them,  for  he  said  ye're 
ower  affectionate  wi'  the  brides.  But  I  stuck  up  for 
you.  I  telt  him  yir  sympathies  was  braid,  but  ye 
didna  pick  oot  the  lassies  for  it  a'.  I  was  at  Wullie 
Lee's  the  nicht  Wullie  dee'd;  an'  I  was  fair  scun- 


152  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

nert  at  the  elders.  There  was  twa  o'  them,  an'  they 
prayed  turn  aboot. 

"  When  Wuliie  slippit  awa,  at  midnight  his  twa 
dochters,  Kirsty  an'  Ann,  took  on  redeek'lus,  an' 
the  auld  wumman  was  waur.  But  the  twa  elders  sat 
an  oor,  comfortin'  the  twa  lassies,  ane  to  ilka  ane,  an' 
baith  o'  them  no'  bad  to  luik  at.  They  comfortit 
them  muckle  the  same  as  I  comfortit  Betsy  when  we 
did  oor  coortin',  but  the  puir  auld  buddy  was  left  -her 
lane  wi'  naebody  to  comfort  her  ava.  I  did  it  masel' 
a  wee  while.  That's  what  I  telt  Tarn,  an'  I  pinted 
oot  the  difference  atween  you  an'  the  elders.  I  said 

as  hoo  ye  wad  hae  pickit  oot  the  auld  buddy  first 

But  to  think  ma  ain  een  saw  ye  comin'  ben  the 
taivern  ayont  twal  o'clock  at  nicht." 

With  such  varied  discourse  did  Geordie  beguile 
our  homeward  way,  which  at  last  brought  us  to  his 
dwelling-place. 

"  I  want  ye  to  promise  me  ae  thing  afore  we  pairt," 
said  Geordie.  "  It's  for  yir  ain  guid  I'm  askin'  it." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  asked  curiously. 

"  I  want  ye  to  sign  the  pledge,"  he  responded,  with 
a  tearful  voice,  "  for  it  maun  hae  a  sair  haud  o'  ye  or 
ye  wadna  be  prowlin'  aboot  a  taivern  at  sic  a  time  o' 
nicht." 

"  I  will  talk  to  you  some  other  time  about  that." 

*  Weel,  weel,  jist  as  ye  wull — it'll  dae  again — but 


GEORDIE'S    DOT-TURN          153 

man,  hoo'll  ye  square  it  wi'  the  wife  when  ye  gang 
hame  to  the  manse  the  nicht?  We'll  baith  hae  oor 
ain  times,  I'm  dootin'.  Here's  a  sweetie  for  ye;  it's 
a  peppermint  lozenge,  an'  it's  a  graun'  help.  Guid- 
nicht." 

I  had  taken  but  forty  steps  or  so  when  a  solicitous 
voice  called  out,  "  Lie  wi'  yir  back  to  the  wife — an' 
sip  the  sweetie — an'  breathe  in  to  yersel'." 


XVII 

"NOO,   The  IN-TURN" 

THE  Apostles'  Creed  should  be  revised 
One  great  article  of  faith  it  lacks.  "  I  be- 
lieve in  the  communion  of  saints,  the  for- 
giveness of  sins,  the  resurrection  of  the  body,  and  the 
life  everlasting" — thus  peal  its  bells  of  gold.  But 
where  is  the  faithful  and  observant  minister  who 
would  not  add,  "  I  believe  in  the  change  of  the  leop- 
ard's spots  and  of  the  Ethiopian's  skin  "  ?  Nowa- 
days, we  speak  of  conversion  with  pity  and  amuse- 
ment, but  it  is  the  greatest  word  the  Christian  Church 
can  boast,  and  the  Scripture  miracles  were  long  ago 
entombed  had  they  not  lived  again  in  their  legitimate 
descendants. 

We  are  prone  to  think  that  men  believe  in  modern 
miracles  because  of  those  of  long  ago — but  the  re- 
verse is  true :  the  modern  miracles  are  the  attestation 
of  those  early  wonders;  and  I  myself  believe  the 
Galilean  records  because  of  His  credentials  in  this 
Western  World  and  in  this  present  day. 

The  very  morning  after  the  eventful  night  de- 
scribed above,  I  was  busy  at  my  desk,  travailing  in 
birth  with  my  sermon  for  the  next  Sabbath  morning. 

154 


"NOO,    The  IN-TURN"  155 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  from  the  words,  "  Why 
should  it  be  thought  a  thing  incredible?  "  which  is  at 
heart  no  interrogative  at  all,  but  the  eternal  affirma- 
tive of  all  religion,  the  basis  of  all  faith,  the  inevitable 
corollary  of  God. 

I  was  casting  about  for  a  fitting  illustration, 
fumbling  in  imagery's  twilight  chamber  and  ran- 
sacking the  halls  of  history,  when  lo  !  God  sent  one 
knocking  at  the  door.  I  responded  to  the  knock 
myself,  and  Geordie  Lorimer  stood  before  me.  His 
face  seemed  strangely  chastened,  and  the  voice  which 
craved  a  private  interview  rilled  me  somehow  with 
subtle  hope  and  joy.  For  the  voice  is  the  soul's  great 
index ;  and  this  of  Geordie's  spoke  of  a  soul's  secret 
convalescence.  The  breath  of  spring  exuded  from 
his  words. 

I  locked  my  study  door  as  we  passed  in  together ; 
for  a  Protestant  confessional  is  a  holy  place,  excelling 
far  the  Catholic,  even  as  a  love-letter  excels  a  bill  of 
lading. 

"  What  is  it,  Geordie  ? "  I  asked,  with  tender 
eagerness. 

"  I  dinna  ken  exactly,  but  I  think  it's  life,"  he 
answered  with  new-born  passion,  "  and  eternal  life  at 
that.  I  canna  tell  it  an'  I  canna  thole  it  till  I  do  tell 
it.  I  maunna  mak'  ower  free  wi'  God  ;  but  it's  my 
soul,  minister,  it's  my  soul,  an'  I'm  a  new  creature. 


156  ST.    CUTHBER'T'S 

I'm  new  in  the  sicht  o'  God  an'  He's  new  in  mine — • 
an'  I  prayed  this  mornin',  a  thing  I  haena  dune  for 
mair  than  twenty  years — an'  the  auld  burn  was  sweet 
an'  clear,  like  when  my  laddie's  lips  sippit  there  lang 
syne — I  daurna  speak  His  name  ower  often,  but  God 
is  gey  guid  to  the  sinfu'  an'  the  weary." 

"  None  but  they  can  know  how  good,"  was  my 
response. 

My  remark  seemed  to  pass  unnoticed,  for  Geordie 
had  more  to  say. 

"  Hark  ye,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  hoo  God  cam'  to  me. 
'Twas  near  the  dawn  this  verra  mornin'  I  had  a 
dream,  an'  wee  Jessie  cam'  to  me.  An'  that  was 
God,  nae  ither  ane  but  God.  '  Oot  o'  the  mooth  o' 
babes/  is  that  no"  i'  the  Buik  ?  For  wee  Jessie  stood 
beside  the  bed,  an'  I  luikit  at  her  an'  I  said, '  My  lit- 
tle dochter.'  'Twas  a'  I  could  say,  an'  she  pit  her 
saft  haun'  on  my  heid  sae  gentle,  an'  sae  blessed  cool, 
for  my  heid  was  burnin'  hot.  She  luikit  lang,  an' 
her  een  was  fu'  o'  love :  '  Faither,'  she  said, '  did  ye 
no"  promise  yir  lassie  to  meet  her  in  the  Faither's 
hoose  ?  Oh,  faither,  I've  come  to  mind  ye  o'  yir 
promise  an'  to  set  yir  puir  feet  upon  the  path  ance 
mair.  God  loves  ye,  faither ;  I  hae  it  frae  Himsel'  • 
an'  there's  mony  a  ane  wi'  Him  noo  in  white  wha 
wandered  farther  bye  nor  you.  An'  God  '11  try,  gin 
ye'll  try  yirsel',  an'  yir  wee  Jessie  '11  no'  be  far  frae  ye. 


"NOO,    The  IN-TURN"  157 

Wull  ye  no'  come,  faither  ?  for  yir  ain  lassie,  an' 
mither,  an'  God,  a'  want  ye.' 

"  I  luikit  lang  intil  her  angel  face,  but  I  was  feart 
to  speak,  for  I  wasna  worthy.  The  road  was  bricht 
eneuch,  but  I  wasna  fit  to  gang. 

" '  I  ken  what  yir  thinkin'  o',  faither.  I  ken  yir 
enemy — an'  God  kens.  It's  the  drink.  But  it'll  pass 
yir  lips  nae  mair.  I'll  kiss  them,  faither,  an'  they'll 
burn  wi'  the  awfu'  thirst  nae  mair.' 

"  An'  she  stoopit  doon  an'  kissed  my  burnin'  lips ; 
an'  I  waukit  up,  an'  the  fever  was  a'  past  an'  by.  I 
tell't  Betsy,  an'  she  grat  wi'  joy.  '  It's  i'  the  Buik/ 
she  said. 

"  '  What's  i'  the  Buik  ?  '  I  speirt. 

"  '  A  little  child  shall  lead  them,'  Betsy  said." 

I  talked  a  little  while  with  Geordie  as  one  talks 
with  a  shipwrecked  sailor  who  has  gained  the  shore. 
He  asked  me  to  pray. 

"  Mak'  it  easy,"  he  said,  "  I'm  no'  far  ben  the 
Mystery  yet.  I'm  but  a  bairn  ;  but  my  lips  are  pure, 
an'  the  fever's  by." 

We  knelt  together,  and  I  prayed :  "  O  Friend  of 
sinners,  help  us  both,  for  we  are  both  sinners.  Keep 
us,  blessed  Lord,  and  let  his  little  daughter  be  near 
us  both  to  help  us  on  the  way.  We  will  both  try  our 
best,  and  Thou  wilt  too.  Amen." 

My  half-written  sermon  never  has  been  finished. 


/5»  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

I  was  constrained  to  take  another  text,  and  the  next 
Sabbath  morn  I  saw  Betsy  Lorimer  bow  her  head  in 
reverent  adoration  when  I  gave  it  out  — 

"  Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits,  sent  forth  to 
minister  ?  " 


XVIII 
HOW  ELSIE   WON    The    GATE 

THE  forest's  glory  is  departed  when  its  giant 
trees  lie  low.  And,  stroke  by  stroke,  my 
St.  Cuthbert's  Kirk  was  thus  bereft  of  its 
outstanding  glories.  For  great  men  are  like  great 
trees,  the  shelter  of  all  others  and  the  path-finders 
towards  the  sky. 

My  sun  is  westering  now,  and  the  oft-repeated 
crash  as  these  mighty  stalwarts  fall  keeps  my  heart 
in  almost  abiding  sadness.  For  the  second  growth 
gives  no  promise  of  a  stock  which  shall  be  worthy 
successors  to  these  noble  pioneers,  the  conquering 
gladiators  of  Canada's  shadowy  forests,  the  real 
makers  of  her  great  and  portentous  national  life. 
And  yet,  strange  to  say,  I  never  knew  their  real 
greatness  while  I  lived  among  them,  sharing  in  the 
varied  chase,  but  only  when  they  came  to  die. 

This  was  especially  true  of  those  who  boasted  far- 
back  highland  blood,  for  their  depths  of  tenderness 
and  heights  of  faith  and  scope  of  spiritual  vision  were 
sternly  hidden  till  the  helplessness  of  death  betrayed 
them.  Then  was  the  key  to  their  secret  life  surren- 
dered ;  then  might  all  men  see  the  face  at  the  pane. 
159 


160  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

But  not  till  then;  for' every  stolid  feature,  every 
stifled  word  or  glance  of  tenderness,  every  muffled 
note  of  religious  self-revealment,  swelled  their  life's 
noble  perjury.  To  their  own  hurt  they  swore, 
changing  not.  But  at  their  real  best  he  saw  them 
who  saw  them  die. 

In  that  ingenuous  hour  they  spoke  once  more 
their  mother  tongue  of  love  and  faith  with  an 
accuracy  which  told  of  lifelong  rehearsal  within  their 
secret  hearts.  When  the  golden  bowl  was  broken, 
its  holy  contents,  flowing  free,  poured  forth  the  long- 
imprisoned  fragrance. 

How  many  a  day,  cold  and  gray,  flowers  at  sunset 
into  rich  redemptive  beauty,  cheerless  avenue  leading 
to  its  grand  Cathedral  West !  Thus  have  I  seen  these 
Scottish  lives,  stern  and  cold  and  rayless,  break  into 
flame  at  evening,  in  whose  light  I  caught  the  glory 
of  the  very  gates  of  the  City  of  God. 

It  was  the  winter  of  the  strike,  whose  story  I  have 
already  told,  that  Elsie  MThatter  heard  the  Voice 
which  calls  but  once.  Long  and  gentle  had  been  the 
slope  towards  the  river,  and  I  held  Elsie's  hand  every 
step  of  the  way,  myself  striving  to  hold  that  other 
Hand  which  is  truly  visible  only  in  the  darkness ; 
but  the  last  stage  of  the  journey  came  swift  and  sud- 
denly. About  two  in  the  morning  I  was  awakened 
by  the  loud  alarm  of  my  door-bell. 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  'The  GATE      161 

The  minister  knows  well  that  at  such  an  hour  his 
bell  is  rung  only  by  eternal  winds,  and  the  alarm  is 
an  almost  certain  message  that  the  rapids  are  near 
and  that  he  is  wanted  at  the  helm.  On  Atlantic 
liners  I  have  never  heard  the  ominous  note  that  calls 
the  captain  from  his  cabin  to  the  bridge  without 
thinking  of  my  midnight  bell,  and  that  deeper  dark- 
ness, and  that  more  awful  channel. 

It  was  the  doctor's  boy  who  thus  summoned  me, 
bidding  me  hurry  to  Elsie's  bedside,  for  the  tide  was 
ebbing  fast,  he  said.  I  was  soon  on  my  way  through 
the  frosty  night,  silently  imploring  the  unseen  Pilot 
that  He  would  safe  into  the  haven  guide.  To  His 
great  wisdom  and  His  sheltering  love  I  committed 
all  the  case,  making  oath  beneath  the  silent  stars  that 
I  had  myself  no  other  hope  than  this  with  which  I 
hurried  to  yonder  dying  one.  For  a  man's  own 
heart  must  swear  by  the  living  Lord,  or  else  he  will 
find  no  path  through  the  dread  wilderness  of  death 
for  the  unreturning  feet. 

When  the  outskirts  of  the  town  were  but  well 
behind  me,  I  saw  in  the  distance  a  solitary  light 
which  I  knew  at  once  to  be  the  death-chamber  lamp  ; 
at  sight  whereof  my  heart  has  never  outgrown  a 
strange  leap  of  trembling  fear,  like  a  scout  when  he 
catches  the  first  warning  gleam  of  the  enemy's  camp- 
fire.  Yonder,  I  said  to  myself,  is  the  battle-field  of  a 


162  57.    CUTHBEK.  T' S 

soul,  struggling  with  its  last  great  foe ;  yonder  the 
central  crisis  of  all  time  and  all  eternity ;  yonder  the 
heaving  breast,  the  eager,  onward  IOOK,  the  unravel- 
ling of  mystery,  the  launching  of  a  soul  upon  eternal 
seas. 

No  life  is  ever  commonplace  when  that  lamp  burns 
beside  it,  and  no  wealth,  or  genius,  or  greatness  can 
palliate  its  relentless  gleam.  There,  continued  I, 
stands  the  dread  unseen  Antagonist,  asking  no  chair, 
demanding  no  courtesy,  craving  no  welcome,  resent- 
ing no  frowning  and  averted  face ;  calmly  does  he 
brook  the  terror  and  the  hatred  excited  by  his  unin- 
vited advent,  serene  in  the  confidence  that  his  is  the 
central  figure,  that  the  last  word  is  his,  though  all 
pretend  to  ignore  his  presence.  Like  a  sullen  cred- 
itor he  stands,  careless  that  every  man's  hand  is 
against  him,  relentlessly  following  his  prey,  willing 
that  all  others  should  wait  his  time  and  theirs,  intent 
only  that  this  night  shall  have  its  own. 

And  yet,  I  thought,  what  a  false  picture  is  this  that 
my  coward  heart  hath  drawn  !  There  is  Another  in 
that  room,  I  cried  half  loud,  Another  there  before 
me,  whose  swift  feet  have  outrun  my  poor  trudging 
through  the  snow.  For  He  is  there  who  lit  that 
feeble  lamp  itself,  and  it  burns  only  by  His  will. 
Death-lamp  though  it  be,  it  is  still  a  broken  light  of 
Him,  witness,  in  its  own  dark  way,  to  the  All-kind- 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  The  GATE      163 

ling  Hand.  The  Lover  of  the  soul,  is  yonder,  and 
will  share  His  dear-bought  victory  with  my  poor 
dying  one. 

Whereat  I  pressed  on  eagerly,  for  I  love  to  witness 
a  reprieve,  such  as  many  a  time  it  hath  been  mine  to 
see  when  the  Greater  Antagonist  prevails. 

The  death  damp  was  on  Elsie's  brow  when  I  knelt 
beside  her  bed,  but  her  eyes  were  kindled  from  afar, 
and  a  great  Presence  filled  the  room.  Donald  was 
bowed  beside  her,  his  wife's  wasted  hand  clasped 
passionately  in  his  own. 

I  knelt  over  the  dying  woman  and  softly  repeated 
the  swelling  anthem  which  no  lips  can  sing  aright 
till  the  great  Vision  quickens  them :  "  These  are 
they  which  came  out  of  great  tribulation,  and  have 
washed  their  robes  and  made  them  white  in  the  blood 
of  the  Lamb." 

Elsie's  voice  blended  with  the  great  words,  and 
turning  her  lustrous  eyes  full  on  my  face,  she  mur- 
mured — 

"  It's  a'  bricht  and  blythesome  whaur  I'm  walkin' 
noo — there's  no  valley  here  nor  nae  glen  ava,  but  the 
way  is  fu'  o'  licht  and  beauty." 

Her  eyes  sought  her  husband's  face :  "  Oh,  Donal' ! 
To  think  we  canna  walk  this  way  thegither !  We've 
clomb  the  hill  thegither,  Donal',  mony  a  time  sair  an' 
weary,  but  oor  hairts  were  stoot  when  the  brae  was 


164  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

stae ;  but  noo  I've  reached  the  bonnie  bit  ayont  the 
brae,  an'  ye're  a'  'at's  wantin',  Donal',  to  mak'  it  fair 
beautiful !  But  ye'll  no'  be  lang  ahint  me,  wull  ye, 
Donal'  ? — an'  the  Maister  '11  come  back  to  guide  ye, 
gin  I'm  gone  bye  the  gate.  An'  we'll  aye  walk  the- 
gither  in  the  yonner-land." 

Donald's  face  was  dry,  but  drawn  in  its  agony. 
Its  ache  passed  on  into  my  soul.  He  bent  over  her 
like  some  bowing  oak,  and  the  rustle  of  love's  foliage 
was  fairly  audible  to  the  inward  ear,  though  the  oak 
itself  seemed  hard  and  gnarled  as  ever.  He  whis- 
pered something,  like  a  mighty  organ  lilting  low  and 
sweet  some  mother's  lullaby,  and  no  tutor  except 
Great  Death  could  have  taught  Donald  that  gentle 
language.  For  I  caught  the  word  "  darling,"  and 
again  "  oor  Saviour,"  and  once  "  the  hameland,"  and 
it  was  like  a  lark's  gentlest  note  issuing  from  a 
mighty  mountain's  cleft. 

O  Death,  how  unjustly  thou  hast  been  maligned  ! 
Men  have  painted  thee  as  cruel,  monstrous,  hateful, 
the  enemy  of  love,  the  despoiler  of  the  home,  the 
spirit  of  harshness,  the  destroyer  of  all  poesy  and 
romance.  And  yet  thou  hast  done  more  to  fill  life 
with  softness  and  with  gentle  beauty  than  all  the 
powers  of  life  and  light  whose  antagonist  thou  hast 
been  called.  Thou  hast  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  thy 
traducers'  heads.  For  hast  thou  not  made  the 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  The  GATE      165 

heaviest  foot  fall  lightly  with  love's  considerate 
tread  ?  Hast  thou  not  made  the  rough,  coarse  palm 
into  a  sanctuary  and  pavilion  wherein  the  dying  hand 
may  shelter  ?  Hast  thou  not  taught  the  loud  and 
boisterous  voice  the  new  song  of  tenderness  and 
pity,  whispering  like  a  dove  ?  Within  thy  school 
the  rude  and  harsh  have  learned  the  nurse's  gentle 
art,  and  the  world's  swaggering  warriors  serve  as 
acolytes  before  thy  shadowy  altar.  The  peasant's 
cottage  owes  to  thee  its  transformation  to  cathedral 
splendour,  the  censers  gently  swinging  when  thou 
sayest  the  soul's  great  mass,  at  even,  or  at  midnight, 
or  at  the  cock-crowing,  or  in  the  morning.  Thou 
hast  classed  together  the  hovel  and  the  palace,  glowing 
with  equal  solemn  grandeur,  so  that  no  man  can  tell 
the  one  from  the  other  when  the  crape  upon  the  door 
betokens  that  thou  tarriest  there.  Thou  hast  pro- 
moted sodden  sleep  to  be  the  most  awful  metaphor 
of  time.  Thou  hast  stripped  wealth  and  grandeur, 
leaving  them  but  a  shroud,  and  hast  clothed  obscurity 
and  poverty  with  their  eternally  suggestive  robe; 
thou  hast  affirmed,  and  thou  preserved,  that  grim 
average  of  life  which  greatness  refuses,  which  little- 
ness fears,  to  realize.  Romance  and  Poetry  and 
Fancy  are  thy  wards,  making  as  thou  dost  the  most 
holden  eyes  to  overleap  time's  poor  horizon,  follow- 
ing departed  treasure  with  wistful  and  unresigning 


/66  57.   CUTHBER  T S 

love,  as  birds  follow  their  ravaged  nests,  crying  as 
they  go.  Oh,  sombre  chantress  !  Thou  hast  filled 
the  world  with  song,  plaintive  and  piteous  though 
it  be. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  I  heard  Donald  whisper ; 
and  the  answer  evidently  came  back  to  him  from  the 
dying  lips.  For  he  turned  to  me,  his  face  full  of 
tragedy :  "  She's  talkin'  aboot  Robin,"  he  said 
hoarsely ;  "  but  ye  dinna  ken.  Robin  was  oor 
laddie — an'  he's  oor  laddie  yet,  though  we've  had 
nae  word  o'  him  for  mony  a  year.  Him  an'  me 
pairted  in  wrath,  an'  he  went  oot  intil  the  dark 
nicht  I  was  ower  prood  tae  ca'  him  back,  but  his 
mither  followed  him  to  the  moor,  cryin'  after  him — 
an'  she  cam'  back  alane." 

Donald  stopped  suddenly,  for  the  mother's  strug- 
gling voice  was  heard :  "  Come  hame,  Robin,  for 
it's  cauld  an'  dark,  an'  ye've  been  ower  lang  awa ; 
but  there's  a  place  at  the  ingle  for  ye  yet,  my  bairn. 
I've  aye  keepit  it  for  ye,  an'  I  keepit  the  fire  burnin' 
ever  sin'  ye  left  us.  I  wadna  let  it  oot.  An'  ilka 
nicht  I  pit  the  lamp  i'  the  window,  for  I  aye  thocht, 
*  He'll  mebbe  come  the  nicht.'  " 

"  She's  wanderin',"  Donald  said  to  me,  awe  ming- 
ling with  his  voice. 

"  She's  found  the  wanderer,"  I  said  ;  and  we  both 
moved  nearer,  each  signalling  the  other  to  be  still. 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  The  GATE     167 

Elsie's  gaze  passed  us  by,  outgoing  far  into  the 
darkness. 

"  Na,  na,  Robin ;  yir  faither'll  no'  be  angry.  I  ken 
fine  a'  ye  say  is  true,  but  he's  yir  faither  for  a'  that. 
An'  he  loves  ye  maist  as  weel  as  me ;  but  oh,  my 
bonnie,  there's  nane  loves  ye  like  yir  mither !  His 
hairt's  fair  broken  for  ye,  Robin.  I'll  tell  ye  some- 
thing, but  ye  maunna  tell  yir  faither.  I  heard  him 
pray  for  ye  all  alane  by  himsel'.  He  prayed  to  God 
to  bring  ye  back — he  ca'd  ye  Robin  richt  to  God. 
An'  I  never  heard  yir  faither  greet  afore  or  syne. 
The  Buik,  tae,  it  wad  open  o'  itsel'  at  the  prodigal, 
an'  it  was  his  daein',  an'  he  didna  think  I  kent ;  but 
I  kent  it  fine,  an'  I  thankit  the  Heavenly  Faither 
mony  a  time." 

She  stopped,  exhausted,  her  soul  flickering  in  her 
voice.  Donald  moved,  his  great  form  coming  athwart 
her  eager,  kindling  eyes.  She  stirred,  her  vision 
evidently  hindered,  and  Donald  stepped  quickly  from 
before  her,  gazing  with  passionate  intentness,  his  eyes 
shaded  by  his  hand  like  one  who  peers  into  a  lane  of  light. 

"  As  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth,  so  will  —  " 
I  began. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Donald  sternly,  "  she's  wi'  him  yet. 
Hark  ye  ! " 

Her  strength  seemed  now  returning,  for  she  went 
on  — 


168  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  Ay,  Robin,  I'm  tellin'  ye  the  truth.  Yir  faither's 
thocht  o'  ye  is  the  thocht  he  had  when  ye  were  a  bit 
bairn  in  his  airms." 

The  anguished  father  flung  himself  upon  his  knees 
beside  the  bed,  his  hand  gently  stroking  his  wife's 
withered  cheek.  • 

"  Tell  him  that  again,  mither  ;  tell  him  my  thocht 
o'  him  was  aye  the  same  as  yir  ain,  when  I  thocht  o' 
him  atween  God  an'  me.  Tell  him  me  an'  you  baith 
thocht  the  same.  Bid  him  hame,  Elsie.  Oh,  mither, 
I've  been  the  wanderer  masel',  an'  I'm  weary." 

My  heart  melted  in  me  at  this,  for  the  eternal 
fatherly  was  sobbing  through  his  voice. 

The  familiar  tones  seemed  to  call  Elsie  back  from 
her  delirium,  for  she  suddenly  looked  upon  us  as  if 
we  had  not  <been  there  before. 

"  Oh,  faither,  Robin's  comin'  hame  the  nicht.  Is 
the  lamp  kindled  in  the  window  ?  We've  baith  been 
wae  these  mony  years,  but  the  mirk'll  be  past  an'  by 
when  oor  laddie's  safe  hame  wi'  us  again." 

A  strange  sense  of  the  nearness  of  the  supernatural 
took  possession  of  me,  for  Elsie's  voice  was  not  the 
voice  of  fevered  fancy ;  the  fast  ebbing  tide  of  life 
seemed  to  flow  back  again,  her  strength  visibly  in- 
creased, as  if  she  must  remain  till  her  Robin  had  been 
welcomed  home. 

In  spite  of  reason,  I  fell  to  listening  eagerly,  won- 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  The  GATE      169 

dering  if  this  were  indeed  the  act  of  God.  Why 
should  it  be  thought  a  thing  incredible  with  us  that 
the  Rebuilder  of  Bethany's  desolated  house  should 
still  ply  His  ancient  industry  ? 

"  Raise  me  up  a  little,  faither,  for  I  maun  watch 
the  gate." 

Donald  lifted  his  dying  wife  with  caressing  easi- 
ness. 

"  That'll  dae ;  ay,  we've  baith  been  wae  these  mony 
years,  but  the  mirk  is  bye. 

" '  Long  hath  the  night  of  sorrow  reigned, 
The  dawn  shall  bring  us  light.' 

The  morn  is  wi'  us,  Donal',  an'  Robin's  at  the  gate." 

Far  past  the  flickering  lamp  she  gazed,  and  her 
eyes'  light  rose  and  fell  in  unison  with  approaching 
steps. 

"  He's  bye  the  gate,"  she  cried ;  and  joy  held  death 
at  bay,  for  the  words  chimed  like  cathedral  bells. 

Fearsome  to  behold  was  the  awestruck  face  which 
Donald  turned  to  mine,  and  full  of  questioning  dread, 
I  doubt  not^  were  the  eyes  that  met  his  own.  Was 
this  the  doing  of  the  Lord,  or  was  it  but  the  handi- 
work of  death,  that  wizard  oculist,  so  often  lending 
mystic  vision  to  pilgrims  setting  under  darkness  out 
to  sea  ? 

Leaving  death  and  Elsie  to  their  unequal  conflict, 


170  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

we  started  with  one  impulse  to  the  window;  but 
Donald  was  there  before  me,  his  eyes  shaded  by  his 
hands,  burning  through  the  dark  a  pathway  to  the 
gate. 

"  God  be  mercifu',"  he  muttered,  and  then  turned 
swiftly  towards  the  stairs,  for  a  hand  was  fumbling  at 
the  latch.  I  waited  trembling,  and  I  heard  no  word  ; 
but  the  aroma  of  a  soul's  second  spring  stole  sweet 
and  unafraid  into  the  chamber  of  death. 

****** 

I  met  them  at  the  door  as  Donald  said,  "Yir 
mither's  deein',"  and  there  broke  from  the  rugged 
man  beside  him  a  low  moaning  sound,  like  to  many 
waters  when  some  opposing  thing  hath  at  length  been 
overswept.  It  was  quickly  checked,  and  the  silence 
of  love  and  anguish  took  its  place. 

I  drew  Donald  gently  back  and  closed  the  door 
upon  them  twain,  the  waiting  mother  and  the  wan- 
dering  son,  for  there  was  never  bridal  hour  like  to 
this. 

"  My  mither,  oh,  my  mither ! "  I  heard  him  say ; 
and  Elsie  spoke  no  word,  but  the  long  ache  was 
ended  and  the  great  wound  was  well. 

'Twas  but  a  moment  again  when  a  trembling  voice 
called,  "  Faither,  she's  wantin'  ye." 

We  entered  the  love-lit  room,  and  Elsie  beckoned 
him  swiftly  to  her  side. 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  The  GATE      171 

"  I  maun  be  gaun  sune,"  she  whispered,  and  then 
followed  some  words  too  low  for  my  ears  to  catch. 

Donald  turned  to  me :  "  She  wants  to  hae  the 
sacrament  dispensit  till  us  a',"  and  his  face  was  full 
of  dubious  entreaty,  for  the  kirk  session  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  was  sternly  set  against  private  administration. 

The  session  and  its  rules  were  in  that  moment  to 
me  but  as  the  dust.  Beyond  their  poor  custody  was 
a  holy  hour  such  as  this.  The  little  table  was 
quickly  spread,  the  snow-white  bread  and  the  wine 
pressed  by  a  mother's  priestly  hands.  I  was  about 
to  proceed  with  the  holy  ordinance  when  Elsie 
stopped  me. 

"  Bide  a  meenit.  Donal',  get  ye  the  token,  the  ane 
wee  Elsie  loved.  My  hairt  tells  me  she's  no'  far  awa 
the  noo.  She'll  e'en  show  forth  the  Lord's  deith 
alang  wi'  us.  The  Maister  o'  the  feast  is  here,  and 
why  wad  He  no'  bring  oor  Elsie  wi'  Him  ?  Wha 
kens  but  I'll  gang  hame  wi'  them  baith  ?  " 

Her  husband,  obedient  to  the  seer's  voice,  passed 
quickly  to  an  adjoining  room,  and  in  an  instant  re- 
appeared, bearing  the  well-worn  token  in  his  hands, 
the  same  his  dying  child  had  fondly  held ;  and  I 
heard  again  the  low  refrain  which  grief  had  taught 
him  years  ago :  "  Christ  an'  oor  Elsie — an'  her 
mither."  This  last  was  new,  learned  in  sorrow's  latest 
hour. 


172  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

He  handed  it  to  his  wife,  who  took  it,  turning  her 
wan  face  to  mine. 

"  There's  only  ane,  but  it'll  dae  us  a' — let  Robin 
haud  it.  Tak'  it,  laddie ;  it's  warm  frae  yir  sister's 
haun'." 

The  wanderer's  reverent  hand  received  it,  and  holy 
memories,  long  banished,  flowed  back  into  the  heart 
that  had  not  been  their  home  since  the  golden  days 
of  boyhood.  Of  his  mother  and  his  sister  were 
they  all,  and  they  laved  that  heart  till  it  was  almost 
clean,  for  they  were  in  disguise  but  memories  of  God, 
foreshadowing  the  Greater  Incarnation. 

"  Noo  we're  ready,  an'  we're  a'  here.  Raise  the 
psalm,  faither,  the  sacrament  ane,"  she  said  faintly — 
"  tak'  St.  Paul's,"  and  Donald's  quavering  voice 
essayed  — 

"  I'll  of  salvation  take  the  cup, 
On  God's  name  will  I  call ; 
I'll  pay  my  vows  now  to  the  Lord 
Before  His  people  all. 

****** 

Dear  in  God's  sight  is  His  saints'  death, 
Thy  servant,  Lord  " — 

but  the  faltering  voice  refused. 

I  broke  the  bread  and  poured  the  wine,  handing  the 
sacred  emblems  first  to  the  dying  one,  so  soon  to  take 
them  new  in  the  kingdom  of  God.  Then  Donald 
partook,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  To  Robin 


HOW  ELSIE  WON  The  GATE     173 

next  I  proffered  the  holy  symbols,  but  he  drew  back, 
stretching  forth  his  hands  towards  the  bed. 

"  I  daurna — I've  wandered  ower  far,"  he  said.  "  I 
hear  the  russlin'  o'  the  husks." 

"  Dinna  fear,  Robin,"  whispered  his  mother's  lips. 
"  We're  a'  but  bairns  comin'  back  to  oor  Faither's 
hoose ;  God  loves  ye  mair  than  either  yir  faither  or 
me, — I'm  near  the  kingdom,  an'  I  ken." 

"  My  son,  my  laddie," — it  was  his  father's  broken 
voice, — "  let  us  tak'  the  feast  thegither.     I'm  a  puir 
prodigal  masel'— rbut  the  door  is  open  wide,  an'  we'll 
baith  come  hame  to  God." 
.  "  I'll  tak'  it  frae  ma  mither's  hands,"  said  Robin. 

I  handed  the  elements  to  her,  ordained  from  all 
eternity  to  minister  to  the  son  she  bore ;  with  trem- 
bling hands  she  dispensed  them  to  him,  high  priestess 
unto  God,  her  dying  eyes  distilling  the  very  love 
which  shed  its  fragrance  when  the  all  but  dying 
Saviour  first  brake  the  holy  bread. 

When  we  were  through,  Elsie's  voice  was  heard 
saying  to  herself  "  Unto  Him  who  loved  us,  and 
washed  us  from  our  sins  in  His  own  blood,"  which 
was  followed  by  a  long  silence. 

"  Wull  ye  no'  pronounce  the  benediction  ?  "  Donald 
said  at  last,  for  he  was  by  nature  an  ecclesiastic. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  it  ?  "  I  replied. 

The  silence  deepened,  the  breathing  grew  heavier, 


174  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

and  we  two  stood  together  looking  down  upon  her 
face.  Robin's  was  by  his  mother's.  Suddenly  her 
eyes  opened  wide,  fastening  themselves  upon  her  son. 

"  I'll  sune  win  hame,"  she  murmured  gladly,  "  an'  I 
want  ye  to  say  yir  bit  prayer  to  me,  Robin,  afore  I 
gang,  the  way  ye  did  when  ye  were  a  bairnie.  Kneel 
doon,  Robin,  an'  say  it  to  me,  an'  we'll  baith  say  it  to 
God,  for  I'm  weary  tae.  '  Noo  I  lay  me,'  ye  ken." 

The  strong  man  bowed  beside  his  mother's  bed, 
and  the  great  anthem  began,  the  sobbing  bass  of  the 
broken  heart  mingling  with  the  feeble  dying  voice — 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  Thee  Lord  my  soul  to  keep ; 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  Thee  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 

Suddenly  she  pointed  with  uplifted  hand :  "  Oh, 
faither,  I  see  oor  Elsie's  face — an'  the  token's  in  her 
haun',  an'  it's  a'  bricht  wi'  gowden  licht.  She's  bid- 
din'  us  a'  hame — me,  an'  faither,  an'  Robin "  and 

she  passed  into  the  homeland  bearing  the  prodigal's 
name  with  her  up  to  God. 

I  gently  closed  her  eyes.  Donald  stood  long  be- 
side the  bed ;  then,  taking  his  son  into  his  arms,  he 
said  — 

"  Yir  mither's  bye  the  gate." 


XIX 

A  MAIDEN'  S  LOVE 

WHAT  self-contradicting  things  we  are! 
The  very  joys  we  crave  bring  sorrow 
when  they  come;  for  they  crowd  out 
some  only  lesser  joy,  which,  rejected,  turns  to  bitter- 
ness and  takes  its  long  revenge.  It  is  one  of  the 
blessed  laws  of  life  that  no  heart,  however  hospitable, 
can  entertain  more  than  one  sorrow  at  one  time,  how 
many  so  ever  be  waiting  at  the  door.  Each  must 
wait  its  turn. 

But  alas !  Joy  has  its  corresponding  law ;  every 
heart's  pleasure  is  an  alternative,  and  if  much  we 
would  enjoy,  much  also  we  must  renounce.  Joy 
usually  comes  as  twins,  and  the  great  perplexity 
is  to  discern  which  the  first-born  is,  that  our  homage 
may  not  return  unto  us  void. 

Of  many  of  our  deepest  longings  may  it  not  be 
said  that  their  fulfillment  would  be  our  keenest  disap- 
pointment? For  instance,  the  wife  of  our  family 
physician  is  forever  lamenting  that  no  spouse  in  all 
New  Jedboro  sees  as  little  of  her  husband  as  does 
she,  forever  longing  that  he  might  be  released  to  the 
enjoyment  of  his  own  fireside.  Yet  should  a  fickle 

175 


176  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

or  convalescent  public  suddenly  so  release  him,  our 
doctor's  wife  would  be  of  all  women  most  miserable. 

Even  as  I  write,  I  am  disturbed  by  a  lad  of  twenty 
who  starts  to-day  on  his  long  journey  to  Athabasca 
and  the  waiting  prairies  of  our  great  Canadian  West. 

Full  of  pathetic  joy  is  his  youthful  face ;  but  his 
mother  is  bowed  beside  the  bed  whereon  she  gave 
him  birth — her  cup,  she  thinks,  would  be  full  to  over- 
flowing if  her  first-born  son  were  suddenly  to  dispack 
his  box  and  take  up  the  old  nestling  life  again.  The 
sun  would  have  turned  back  to  its  undimmed  merid- 
ian, she  weens ;  and  yet  she  knows  full  well  that  this 
very  longing,  were  it  gratified,  would  poison  her  over- 
flowing cup  and  tarnish  her  mother's  pride.  If  she 
were  asked  to  choose  between  these  two,  womanlike, 
she  would  elect  to  have  them  both — but  God  for- 
bids. 

The  youth's  father  says :  "  Let  the  lad  go  forth  " — 
and  God  is  a  Father,  though  He  takes  counsel  of  a 
mother-heart. 

All  this  reflective  vein  flows  from  this  poor  heart 
of  mine,  the  truth  whereof  that  heart  hath  sorrow- 
fully proved. 

For  my  daughter  Margaret  holds  within  it  a  place 
of  solitary  tenderness,  more  exclusively  her  own  as 
the  years  go  by.  And  I  too  was  forced  to  the  great 
alternative,  the  same  which  hath  wrung  uncounted  » 


A  MAIDEN'S  LOVE  177 

parents'  hearts  before  I  saw  the  light,  the  same  as  will 
rend  thousands  more  when  that  poor  light  has  filtered 
through  darkness  into  Day. 

What  father  is  there  who  can  contemplate  without 
dismay  the  prospect  of  his  only  daughter  surrendered 
to  another's  care,  though  that  other  press  the  cruel 
claim  of  a  mate's  more  passionate  love  ?  Where  is 
the  father  that  does  not  long  to  shelter  his  child's 
sweet  innocence  forever  within  the  pavilion  of  his 
heart's  loving  tenderness  ?  And  yet,  where  is  the 
father  who  would  be  free  from  torture,  were  he  as- 
sured that  his  soul's  yearning  would  be  satisfied,  and 
that  no  high  claim  of  unrelated  love  would  ever  rival 
or  dispute  his  own  ? 

It  was  my  own  fault  that  Margaret's  attachment  to 
Angus  Strachan  came  to  me  as  a  bolt  from  the  blue. 
I  had  never  dreamed  of  it — I  was  so  sure  of  every- 
body loving  Margaret  that  I  never  thought  of  any- 
body loving  her.  Of  course  it  was  easily  seen  that 
their  friendship  was  mutually  cherished ;  but  friend- 
ship, although  a  mother's  hope,  is  a  father's  reassur- 
ance. Margaret's  mother  had  more  than  once  spoken 
of  their  friendship  in  that  portentous  tone  which  all 
women  hope  to  assume  before  they  die ;  and  her 
words  exuded  the  far-off  fragrance  of  orange  blos- 
soms. She  began  with  the  assurance  that  the  friend- 
ship between  Angus  and  our  Margaret  had  no  par- 


178  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

ticular  meaning — to  which  I  agreed.  A  little  later 
on  she  ventured  the  remark  that  she  did  not  think 
Angus  cared  for  Margaret  except  as  a  friend — to 
which  also  I  cheerfully  agreed.  Later  still,  she  re- 
sorted to  the  interrogative,  and  asked  me  if  I  thought 
Margaret  would  ever  marry,  to  which  I  answered  : 
"  I  hope  so,  but  she  shall  not  with  my  consent." 

"  I  was  married  when  I  was  Margaret's  age,"  added 
my  wife.  (What  woman  is  there  who  does  not  love 
to  say  the  same  ? )  "  Margaret  will  soon  be 
twenty." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  few  women  have  the  chance 
that  came  to  you  and  no  man  ever  had  provocation 
like  to  mine."  This  was  followed  by  a  passage  at 
arms,  during  which,  of  course,  the  fair  debater's  lips 
were  sealed. 

By  degrees  my  wife's  attack  upon  the  subject  grew 
bolder  and  more  frontal. 

"  Do  you  think  Margaret  cares  anything  for 
Angus  ?  "  she  asked,  the  hour  being  that  post-retir- 
ing one  sacred  in  every  age  to  conjugal  conference. 

"  I  don't  think  so — certainly  not ;  why  should 
she  ?  We  have  a  triangular  family  altogether — two 
to  each  of  us,  and  why  should  she  want  any  more  ? 
She  has  you  and  me,  just  as  I  have  you  and  her,  and 
you  have  her  and  me." 

"  But  that  is  foolish ;  you  don't  understand," 


A   MAIDEN'S  LOfE  179 

"  I  don't  want  to  understand,"  I  answered  drowsily. 
"  Margaret's  only  a  child — and  I  want  to  go  to  sleep ; 
if  I  don't  sleep  over  my  sermon  to-night,  the  people 
will  to-morrow."  For  it  was  Saturday  night. 

But  "  the  child  "  was  not  asleep.  The  love  affairs 
of  other  hearts  are  by  others  easily  borne,  even 
though  those  others  be  the  next  nearest  and  dearest 
of  all.  But  how  different  with  the  maiden's  heart 
that  loves,  and  tremblingly  hopes  that  it  loves  not  in 
vain  !  Then  doth  the  pillow  burn  with  holy  passion, 
and  considerate  sleep,  like  an  indulgent  nurse,  turns 
her  steps  aside,  fearing  to  break  in  upon  the  soul's 
solemn  revelry.  Even  when  she  ventures  nigh, 
gently  withdrawing  the  still  unwearied  heart  from  its 
virgin  joy,  do  the  half  open  lips  still  sip  from  the  new 
found  cisterns  of  sweet  and  tender  bliss. 

O  holy  love!  Who  shall  separate  the  joy  thou 
bringest  from  the  heart  that  opens  wide  to  welcome 
it,  even  as  the  flower  bares  its  bosom  to  the  sun  ? 

Darkness  and  tears  and  sorrow  may  follow  fast ; 
fears  and  misgivings  and  dread  discoveries  may  come 
close  upon  thy  train ;  broken-heartedness  and  bleak 
perpetual  maidenhood  may  be  thine  only  relics ;  or, 
flowering  with  the  years,  the  thorns  of  grief  and  pov- 
erty and  widowhood  may  grow  where  youthful  fancy 
looked  for  radiant  flowers  ;  the  heart  which  echoed 
with  thy  bridal  song  may  yet  peal  forth  the  Rachel 


i8o  ST.    CU-THBERTS 

cry — but  thou  belongest  to  the  heart  forever,  and  none 
of  these  can  dispossess  the  soul  of  its  unforgotten 
transport.  Nor  fire,  nor  flood,  nor  fraud  can  prevail 
against  thee !  Thy  treasures  moth  and  rust  doth  not 
corrupt  nor  thieves  break  through  and  steal ! 

As  a  burning  building  lends  its  heat  to  all  beside 
it,  so  was  my  own  soul  kindled,  half  with  rapture  and 
half  with  anger,  by  the  story  of  Margaret's  passion. 
Father's  and  daughter's  hearts  were  never  pressed 
closer  to  each  other  than  were  mine  and  my  only 
child's. 

It  was  the  succeeding  Sunday  night  that  Margaret, 
in  her  father's  arms,  breathed  out  the  tender  tale ;  I 
was  enjoying  my  evening  smoke  (a  post-sermonic 
anodyne),  but  long  before  Margaret  had  finished,  my 
cigar  was  in  ashes  and  my  heart  in  flame. 

"  Father,"  she  began,  her  face  hidden  on  my 
shoulder,  "  I  am  either  very  happy  or  very  wretched, 
and  I  cannot  decide  which  till  I  know  which  you  will 
be." 

"  The  old  problem,  daughter,  is  it  not  ? "  I  an- 
swered. "  Still  longing  to  enter  a  hospital  ?  And  you 
want  to  wheedle  your  old  father  into  giving  you 
up  ?  "  for  Margaret,  like  every  other  modern  girl,  had 
been  craving  entrance  to  that  noble  calling.  The 
high-born  and  the  love-lorn,  those  weary  of  life,  or  of 
love,  or  both,  find  a  refuge  there. 


A  MAIDEN'S  LOVE  181 

"  No,  father,  I  was  not  thinking  of  that  at  all.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  nurse  any  more." 

"What  is  it  then?  You  have  never  had  any 
secrets  from  your  father  and  you  will  not  have  any 
now,  will  you,  dear  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  can — but  I  cannot 
tell  you  all." 

I  started  in  my  chair,  for  the  child  note  was  absent 
from  her  words,  and  the  passion  of  womanhood  was 
in  its  stead.  Awesome  to  a  father's  heart  is  that 
moment  wherein  a  daughter's  voice  unconsciously 
asserts  the  suffrage  of  her  soul. 

"  Go  on,  my  daughter — tell  me  what  you  may,"  I 
said,  for  I  knew  now  that  the  realm  was  one  wherein 
parental  authority  was  of  no  avail. 

Only  silence  followed ;  her  lips  spoke  no  word,  but 
the  heaving  bosom  had  a  rhetoric  all  its  own  and  told 
me  that  a  new  life,  begotten  not  of  mine,  was  throb- 
bing there.  An  alien  life  it  seemed  to  me,  a  soul's 
expansion  beyond  the  province  of  my  own,  an  infini- 
tude which  denied  the  sway  of  even  a  father's  love. 
At  length  she  spoke : 

"  Oh,  father,  I  will  tell  you  all — that  is,  all  I  can. 
But  I  am  so  lonely.  You  cannot  follow  me,  father. 
I  have  gone  away  in — with  another — in  where  you 
cannot  go," 


1 82  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  What  mean  you,  Margaret  ?  In  where  ?  Where 
can  I  not  come  ?  "  I  asked,  perplexed. 

"  Father,  let  me  tell  you.  I  am  speaking  in  a  fig- 
ure, I  know — but  it  is  the  only  way — and  you  will 
understand.  Love  is  a  far  country,  and  prodigals 
take  their  journey  there — but  they  seek  it  two  by 
two.  Oh,  father,  another  one  and  I  went  off  together 
to  that  far,  far  land  and  those  who  go  leave  father 
and  mother  far  behind.  But  there  is  no  hunger  and 
no  famine  there." 

Rich  the  endowment  love  bestows !  While  we 
had  all  thought  Margaret  anything  but  dull,  yet  this 
new  speech  of  metaphor  and  music  fell  upon  my  ears 
as  a  great  surprise.  That  live  coal  from  off  God's 
altar  had  touched  her  lips  when  first  another's  burn- 
ing lips  of  love  anointed  them  with  flame.  When 
this  new  sun  arises,  the  humblest  of  God's  meadow 
creatures  know  that  the  soul  has  wings  and  spread 
them  in  that  holy  light. 

Closer  to  my  breast  I  pressed  the  heart  whose 
tumult,  as  it  struggled  with  its  muffled  witnesses, 
started  the  same  passionate  riot  in  my  own. 

"There  are  many  voices  in  your  heart,  daughter 
mine ;  let  them  speak  every  one  and  tell  me  all  their 
story.  Where  is  it  that  your  father  cannot  come  ?  " 

"  Father,"  she  answered,  with  sweet  calmness  but 
with  averted  face,  "  I  never  loved  you  more  than 


A  MAIDEN'S  LOYE  183 

now.  But  love's  joy  is  in  its  loneliness,  its  sweet 
bridal  loneliness.  It  was  a  long  weary  way  that  an- 
other one  and  I — you  know  his  name,  and  I  cannot 
speak  it  yet — walked  together,  but  not  alone  to- 
gether ;  for  others  walked  besides  us — and  friendship 
is  a  cruel  thing.  But  oh,  father  dear,  one  day — no, 
it  was  in  the  gloaming,  we  saw  an  avenue  far  be- 
yond ;  and  we  both  knew  it  was  for  us  and  for  us 
alone.  I  saw  it  first,  but  I  did  not  let  Angus  know. 
But  he  saw  it  in  a  moment  and  he  started  quickly  on. 
Then  my  feet  fell  back,  though  my  heart  pressed  on 
with  his.  But  Angus  would  not  let  me  stop.  He 
hurried  me  on  ;  and  it  was  sweet  to  be  overborne,  for 
love  makes  a  man  so  strong  and  a  woman  so  weak. 

"  When  we  came  close  up  to  where  you  enter  in, 
I  saw  that  the  way  within  was  sweet,  and  shadowy, 
so  shadowy,  but  I  saw  that  it  was  long,  so  long. 
And  I  turned  away,  though  my  heart  never  turned. 
But  Angus 's  eyes  never  moved  from  the  avenue,  and 
he  whispered  that  it  was  meant  for  us  two — just  for 
us  two — and  for  none  on  earth  beside ;  he  said  no 
one  could  go  in  alone,  because  it  would  vanish  if 
they  did — and  he  held  me  close — and  we  went  in  to- 
gether— and  we  shall  come  out  no  more  forever. 
That  is  where  you  cannot  come,  father — nor  mother, 
nor  dearest  friend  can.  You  could  not  if  you  would, 
for  it  is  God  who  keeps  the  gate/' 


i«4  ST.   CU'THBERTS 

Her  trembling  voice  was  still,  but  throbbing  heart 
and  swelling  bosom  still  poured  forth  their  passionate 
utterance. 

Soon  her  lips  opened  igain,  yielding  before  the 
inner  tide. 

"  And  father,"  her  hot  cheek  pressed  to  mine  fore- 
told the  ardent  story,  "  it  was  at  evening,  as  I  said, 
and  Angus  and  I  had  wandered  far — farther  than  we 
thought.  We  were  resting  on  a  grassy  knoll.  Angus 
had  been  speaking  of  his  mother,  and  he  said  that 
the  beauty  of  nature  always  made  his  heart  ache. 
Surely,  father,  there  is  nothing  so  lonesome  as  beauty 
when  the  heart's  lonesome !  Angus  and  I  were  still 
a  long  time — till  it  was  growing  dusk ;  and  then  at 
last  he  said,  '  How  lonely  all  this  is  if  no  one  loves 
you  ! '  And  I  started  at  his  tone,  and  when  my  eyes 
met  his  I  went  down  before  them,  for  they  caressed 
me  so.  Father  dear,  I  need  not  tell  you  all.  I  could 
not  if  I  would — no  girl  could.  I  know,  I  remember, 
oh,  I  remember  what  he  said,  and  no  one  else  knows 
but  me,  and  my  soul  trusted  him  and  he  took  me 
into  the  sheltering  place  where  nobody  but  God 
could  see  my  soul's  surrender." 

"  My  daughter,  my  little  daughter,"  was  all  I 
said. 

"  Wait,  father,"  her  face  now  was  hidden  deep  and 
she  was  whispering  into  my  very  heart,  "  there  is  an- 


A  MAIDEN'S  LOVE  185 

other  thing  I  want  to  tell  you — no,  two  things,  for 
they  were  both  together. 

"  Father,  he  kissed  me — on  the  lips — and  I  did  not 
believe  it ;  for  just  a  moment  before  we  had  been 
listening  to  the  crickets  and  looking  at  the  sun.  But 
he  kissed  me  on  the  lips  and  my  whole  soul  surged 
hot,  and  my  eyes  were  closed — for  I  felt  him  coming 
and  I  could  not  speak  or  move. 

"  And  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  thought  of  the 
sacrament  and  the  holy  wine,  and  everything  was 
holy — not  like  music,  but  like  a  bell,  a  great  cathe- 
dral bell  with  its  unstained  voice.  And  father  (I 
shall  feel  purer  when  I  tell  you  this),  father,  that  very 
moment  I  felt  a  strange  new  life  in  my  breast  and  the 
old  girlish  life  was  gone — and  there  came  before  my 
closed  eyes  a  vision  of  another  just  like  Angus,  white 
and  soft  and  helpless — and  I  heard  its  cry — and  my 
heart  melted  in  me  with  the  great  compassion.  And 
I  knew  that  what  I  called  love  was  really  life,  just 
life.  And  I  felt  no  shame  at  all,  but  a  great  pride 
that  it  was  all  so  holy — for  it  is  holy,  father,  and  no 
one  prompted  it  but  God.  Father,  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

I  bent  to  kiss  the  glowing  lips,  but  I  remembered, 
and  kissed  her  brow  instead,  beautiful  and  pure  be- 
fore my  misty  eyes.  She  drew  herself  gently  from 
my  arms  and  in  a  moment  the  sweet  presence  had 
departed.  But  the  fragrance  of  love  and  innocence 


1 86  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

was  left  behind  and  my  faltering  answer  came  at  last, 
though  she  heard  it  not : 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart  for  they  shall  see 
God." 


XX 

A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION 

IT   is   from  joy   alone  that  real  sorrow  can  be 
brewed.     Were  joy  to   perish   from  the  earth 
human    lips  would  soon  forget  the  bitter  taste 
of  anguish.     The  only  intolerable  clouds  are  those 
which  follow  swift  upon  some  rosy  morn,  frowning 
its  every  sunbeam  into  darkness,  pursuing  its  fugitive 
smiles  as  the  hound  pursues  the  deer.     The  soul's 
great  sickness  is  in  joy's  relapse. 

Into  the  tide  of  our  daughter's  virgin  gladness  her 
mother  and  I  were  soon  gladly  swept.  Love  and  joy 
are  incendiary  things  and  we  soon  succumbed  to  the 
sweet  contagion.  Apart  altogether  from  our  daugh- 
ter's choice,  he  might  well  have  been  our  own ;  for 
Angus  Strachan  was  strong  of  body  and  vigorous  of 
mind,  and  pure  of  soul.  He  had  made  swift  strides  in 
his  chosen  calling,  and  was  now  a  partner  in  one  of  the 
manufacturing  firms  which  were  New  Jedboro's 
pride.  At  the  door  of  industry  he  had  knocked 
with  patient  hand,  and  wealth  had  answered  to  that 
knock  herself.  He  was  a  man  of  influence,  ever  in- 
creasing, in  New  Jedboro.  In  St.  Cuthbert's,  he  was 
held  in  high  esteem  by  all,  and  the  next  election,  we 

187 


i88  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

knew,  would  call  him  to  the  elder's  honoured  place. 
Prepossessing  in  appearance,  manly  in  bearing, 
musical  in  speech,  fragrant  in  character,  Angus  might 
well  wake  the  echoes  of  even  our  Margaret's  noble 
heart. 

Wherefore  there  was  joy  in  St.  Cuthbert's  manse, 
and  in  its  three  devoted  hearts,  beating  high  with  a 
common  hope.  Our  morning  sun  shone  radiantly. 

But  the  eclipse  came  suddenly.  It  was  again  the 
Sabbath  evening,  and  Margaret  again  was  nestling 
close,  her  face  bearing  more  and  more  the  beauty 
which  love's  tuition  gives. 

"  Father,"  she  suddenly  began,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  something." 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?  "  I  said. 

"  You  know  that  verse  in  the  Bible  that  says  :  — 
'  Who  did  sin,  this  man  or  his  parents  ? '  You  know 
the  verse.  Well  father,  who  did  sin  ?  Was  it  the 
man,  or  was  it  his  parents  ?  " 

"  What  a  strange  question,  child  !  What  on  earth 
has  that  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  father — let  us  stick  to  the  text," 
she  answered.  "  You  are  a  minister  and  I  want  you 
to  stick  to  the  text.  Tell  me  who  did  sin  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  the  man's  blindness  was  because  of  sin, 
since  he  was  born  blind  and  since  he  couldn't  sin  be- 
fore he  was  born,  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  his 


A   FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION       189 

parents,"  I  answered  slowly.  "  What  difference  does 
it  make  to  you  ?  "  For  I  was  curious  to  know. 

"  And  don't  you  think,"  she  went  on  unheedingly, 
<•  that  it  was  cruel  for  anybody  to  hold  that  poor  man 
responsible  for  his  parents'  sin  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  why  are  you  catechizing  me 
like  this,  burrowing  among  old  questions  of  two 
thousand  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  there  are  no  old  questions,"  and  there 
was  a  strange  cry  in  her  voice,  "  because  there  are  no 
old  lives.  They  are  all  new  every  day — they  all 
live  again,  father.  Sin  is  new  and  sorrow  is  new — 
and  the  Cross  is  new,  father — so  new  and  so  cruel," 
she  cried,  the  tears  now  flowing  fast,  "and  that 
question  isn't  old — it  is  asked  every  day.  And  it 
is  asked  of  me — and  I  have  to  answer  it,  and  answer 
it  as  you  have  done,  and  as  the  compassionate 
Saviour  would  have  done,"  she  concluded,  her  voice 
trembling  with  its  passion. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Margaret  ?  Sin, 
sorrow,  the  Cross,  what  have  these  to  do  with  you  ?  " 
I  asked  eagerly. 

"  It  was  only  last  night  that  Angus  told  me.  Poor 
fellow,  his  face  was  white  when  he  came  and  his  look 
was  full  of  agony.  Of  course  I  asked  him  to  tell  me 
what  was  the  matter.  We  were  in  the  library,  for  I 
always  took  him  there  because  it  has  a  fireplace,  and 


190  ST.   CUTHBER'T'S 

we  both  love  to  watch  the  fire.  I  had  laid  the  wood 
myself  last  night  before  Angus  came,  and  there  was 
never  task  so  dear — it  was  the  gloaming  when  I  laid 
it,  but  I  knew  it  would  soon  be  bright. 

"  But  about  his  answer  to  my  question.  Surely  no 
maiden  yet  had  so  strange  an  answer.  For,  without 
a  word,  he  went  to  the  desk  and  took  the  Bible  in  his 
hands.  When  he  had  found  the  place  he  stood  be- 
fore me  and  read  me  this  : 

"  '  Then  cometh  Jesus  with  them  unto  the  place 
called  Gethsemane.  .  .  .  My  soul  is  exceeding 
sorrowful  unto  death.  .  .  .  My  Father  if  this  cup 
may  not  pass  away  from  Me  except  I  drink  it,  Thy 
will  be  done.' 

"  His  voice  was  strange  to  me,  and  I  was  trem- 
bling for  I  didn't  know  what  he  meant.  But  I  knew  it 
was  my  Judgment  Day. 

"  '  Angus,'  I  said  faintly,  '  what  do  you  mean  ? 
What  has  that  to  do  with  us  ?  That  is  a  story  of  two 
thousand  years  ago.' 

" '  Margaret,'  he  answered, '  the  story  of  Geth- 
semane is  never  old.  Its  willows  cast  the  same 
shadows  yet  as  those  into  which  our  Saviour  crept. 
And  that  cup  is  never  empty,  though  human  lips 
are  ever  draining  it  to  its  dregs.  It  is  close  to  my 
lips  to-night — and  to  your  sweet  lips  too,  my  darling 
— and  we  must  drink  it  together.' 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION      191 

"  '  Together,  Angus,'  I  said, « thank  God  for  that.' 
The  word  was  sweet.  Oh,  father,  head-winds  are 
precious  unto  love  if  only  love's  hands  together  hold 
the  sail. 

"  After  a  long  silence  Angus  spoke  again  and  my 
poor  heart  had  to  listen. 

"  '  Margaret,'  he  began, '  no  man  ever  renounced 
what  I  renounce  to-night,  for  no  man  ever  loved  as  I 
love  you,  though  I  reckon  many  a  man  would  swear 
the  same,  knowing  not  his  perjury — for  none  can 
know  my  love.  And  joy,  and  pride,  and  home — 
and  all  with  which  our  pure  thought  had  enriched 
our  home — all  these  must  I  surrender  now.  I  must 
give  up  everything  but  love— and  that  is  mine  forever. 
Oh,  Margaret,  I  won  you,  did  I  not  ?  I,  a  poor 
Scottish  laddie,  a  herd  among  the  heather.  I  came 
to  Canada  lang  syne,  and  by  and  by  I  won  you,  did 
I  not,  Margaret  ? 

" « But  I  must  give  you  up — and  I  will  tell  you 
why. 

" '  It  was  not  hard  for  me  to  find  that  story  of 
Gethsemane.  When  I  was  but  a  laddie  among  the 
Scottish  hills  my  mother's  Bible  aye  opened  at  that 
very  place;  and  laddie  though  I  was,  I  noticed  it, 
for  the  page  was  marked  and  worn  and  soiled  with 
tears. 

" '  I  asked  my  mother  many  a  time  why  the  Book 


I92  ST. 

aye  opened  there  and  what  soiled  and  marked  it  so. 
She  told  me  not  for  long,  saying  only  that  it  was 
marked  and  soiled  before  her  laddie  had  been  born. 

" '  But  the  night  before  I  sailed  from  Annan  Foot, 
she  put  her  arms  about  me  and  she  told  me  of  the 
anguish  of  her  soul  and  all  about  the  tear-stained 
place — for  she  told  me  of  her  own  Gethsemane  and 
of  the  bitter  cup,  and  said  that  her  laddie's  lips  could 
pass  it  by  no  more  than  hers. 

" '  And  ever  since  that  night  ma  ain  buik  aye 
opens  at  Gethsemane.  Oh,  Margaret,  you  under- 
stand, do  you  not  ? '  he  cried, '  I  am  not  worthy  of 
you  and  of  your  love. 

" '  The  far-off  strain  of  sin  starting  from  another 
heart  than  mine  (another  than  my  mother's,  by  the 
living  God)  has  stained  my  name.  Mine  is  an  unhal- 
lowed name.  Mine  is  a  shadowed  birth.  Mine  is 
the  perpetual  Gethsemane  and  mine  the  unemptied 
cup ! 

" '  Forgive  me,  Margaret,  for  the  wrong  I  did  you. 
I  should  never  have  spoken  love  to  you  at  all,  or  if  I 
did,  I  should  have  told  you  of  the  blight  upon  it ; 
but  the  sky  and  the  trees  and  the  hill  were  clothed 
that  night  in  the  beauty  that  wrapt  my  soul  and  I 
thought  that  God  had  forgotten  and  had  shrived  me 
in  the  same  sacred  light.  But  He  does  not  forget. 
That  light  itself  cannot  drive  the  shadow  from  Geth- 


A   FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION      193 

semane  and  the  cup  has   never  since  been  absent 
from  my  lips.' 

'•Angus  stopped — and  God  watched  over  me;  for 
He  pitied  me. 

"  I  thought  of  you  and  mother  first,  but  God  still 
kept  my  will  in  His.  I  wanted  God  to  lead  me  and 
I  asked  Him  to  help  me — and  I  waited. 

" '  Angus,'  I  said  at  last,  « your  mother  loved  him, 
did  she  not?' 

" '  Loved  ! '  he  answered, '  her  pure  heart  knew  no 
other  passion.  My  own  is  but  an  echo.  Behold  !  I 
was  shapen  in  love.' 

"  '  Then,'  said  I, '  let  her  that  is  without  love  cast 
the  first  stone  at  her.  If  any  sinning  woman  love, 
she  has  an  advocate  with  the  Father.  Oh,  Angus ! 
Come  to  me  ! '  I  cried,  for  I  was  fainting." 

****** 

Her  story  was  finished  now  and  my  daughter  added 
not  a  word.  But  she  arose  and  stood  before  me,  her 
eyes  searching  my  pallid  face  for  a  verdict,  if  haply 
it  might  be  like  her  own.  I  noticed  the  woman's 
tactics  in  her  move,  for  woman's  genius  makes  its 
home  within  her  soul ;  she  had  left  my  arms  that  I 
might,  if  I  would,  hold  them  out  to  her  again  and 
take  her  back  forever.  But  the  arms  have  their 
hinges  in  the  heart  and  mine  was  tight  locked  like  a 
vise. 


194  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  Margaret,"  I  said  at  last,  and  my  voice  was  like 
the  voice  of  age,  "  you  do  not  mean  that  you  suffered 
this  man's  caresses  after  he  told  you  what  you  have 
just  told  me  ?  " 

Sorrow  looked  from  Margaret's  eyes. 

"  Suffered  ! "  she  replied, "  suffered !  I  have  learned 
what  suffering  is,  God  knows,  but  He  knows  it  was 
not  there  I  learned  it.  *  This  man.'  Oh,  father,  I 
love  him — am  I  all  alone  ?  " 

How  strong  is  the  weakness  of  love !  There  is  no 
panoply  like  that  which  love  provides,  and  she  who 
bears  it  has  the  whole  armour  'of  God. 

"  Margaret,"  I  pleaded,  "  you  surely  will  not  ruin 
your  life  and  break  your  mother's  heart  and  mine  by 
any  madness  such  as  this." 

" '  Ruin  my  life/  father !  what  ruin  can  there  be 
to  the  life  that  loves  and  is  loved  ?  I  have  no  life  at 
all  apart  from  him.  It  seems  so  simple.  I  can't  take 
back  my  heart ! " 

"  Perhaps  so,  my  daughter,*  I  replied,  "  perhaps  so. 
I  know  your  love  is  no  fickle  thing.  But  Margaret, 
you  do  not  propose  to  link  your  life  with  his,  shad- 
owed as  you  yourself  declare  it  to  have  been  from  his 
birth  ?  " 

"  Father,  it  is  already  linked.  It  was  not  I  who 
linked  our  lives,  nor  was  it  he ;  nor  was  it  both  to- 
gether— it  was  God.  Surely  He  wouldn't  have  let 


A  FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION      195 

me  love  and  trust,  if  it  was  wrong.  I  want  you  to 
help  me ;  I  am  all  alone." 

"  But  you  do  not  mean,"  I  cried  with  growing 
warmth,  "  that  I,  the  minister  of  St.  Cuthbert's  Kirk, 
New  Jedboro,  am  to  be  called  upon  to  take  into  my 
family  and  to  acknowledge  as  my  son,  a  man  who 
cannot  speak  his  father's  name,  who  cannot,"  for  I 
was  maddening  fast,  "  speak  it  even  to  himself,  for- 
sooth, because  he  knows  not  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  do  not  press  me  so ;  I  love  you — and 
I  love  him  too,  and " 

"  But  about  our  family  ?  "  I  asked  hotly. 

"  I  forgot  about  families,"  she  sobbed.  "  Oh,  father, 
teach  this  poor  heart  of  mine  to  love  no  more  and  I 
will  obey  your  every  wish — but  it  is  hard  for  love  to 
serve  two  masters." 

My  heart  was  wrung  by  her  plaintive  voice ;  but 
love  dwells  hard  by  cruelty,  and  my  self-control  was 
going  fast.  Let  those  defend  me  who  have  known 
my  agony. 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  the  result  that  will  issue 
from  your  madness  ?  You  know  what  it  will  mean 
to  your  future  relations  here  ?  "  I  asked  hoarsely,  ex- 
plaining my  threat  by  a  glance  about  the  room. 

"  Don't  call  it  madness,  father,"  she  replied,  plead- 
ingly. "  There  is  no  madness  in  love.  I  cannot  help 
it,  father.  Why  should  I  ?  Surely  Angus  is  the 


196  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

same  as  he  was  when  first  I  loved  him.  I  haven't 
learned  anything  new  about  the  soul  of  him, 
father." 

"  But  his  origin  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

"  But  he  is  good,  father, — and  kind — and  true — 
and  he  loves  me." 

It  was  but  a  moment  till  I  was  past  the  bounds  of 
reason.  Disappointment,  pride,  shame,  anger — all 
these  had  their  cruel  way  with  me.  I  am  covered 
with  confusion  as  with  a  garment  while  I  try  to  re- 
cord what  followed,  though  I  could  not  tell  it  all,  even 
if  I  would.  There  is  no  cruelty  like  the  cruelty  of 
love.  For  the  anguished  soul  pours  out  the  vials  of 
its  remorse  and  self-reproach  upon  the  well  loved 
head,  and  fury  waxes  with  its  shame. 

"  I  want  none  of  your  preaching,"  and  my  voice 
was  coarse  with  anger ;  "  you  are  a  willful  and  dis- 
obedient child  and  you  may  as  well  learn  first  as  last 
who  is  the  master  of  this  house.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  hear, — and  my  heart  is  broken.  You  want 
me  to  go  away  and  not  to  see  me  any  more.  And  I 
don't  know  where  to  go." 

She  was  kneeling  now  and  the  tears  were  dropping 
hot  upon  my  hand,  which  she  had  taken  in  both  of 
hers.  "  Oh,  father,  when  birdlings  leave  the  nest, 
surely  God  wants  them  to  go,  because  He  gives  them 
wings.  Father,  dear,  oh,  do  not  push  me  out  in  this 


A   FATHER'S  CRUCIFIXION       197 

cruel  way.  I  want  to  keep  you  and  Angus  both — • 
and  mother.  Ami  really  wrong  ? 

"  Father,  you  are  a  preacher  of  the  Everlasting 
Gospel,  and  doesn't  that  say  we  were  all  born  wrong 
and  need  to  be  born  again  ?  You  said  only  last  Sun- 
day that  if  we're  once  on  the  Rock,  God  forgets  all 
about  the  pit  and  the  miry  clay.  And  you  said  God 
makes  the  past  new — all  new,  and  that  all  the  re- 
deemed ones  are  just  the  same  in  His  sight — all 
good,  and  with  the  past  away  behind  them.  I 
thought  it  was  beautiful,  because  I  thought  about 
Angus — and  it  seemed  just  like  the  Saviour's  way." 

My  heart  was  wrung  with  a  great  desire  to  take 
the  bended  form  unto  myself.  I  half  moved  forward 
to  kiss  the  lips  of  this  kneeling  priestess  unto  love. 
But  as  I  did  so  the  memory  of  other  lips  that  had 
been  pressed  to  them  rolled  in  upon  me  and  swept 
away  the  better  impulse.  I  faltered  into  compro- 
mise. 

"  Margaret,  you  are  still  my  daughter  and  I  am 
touched  by  what  you  say.  Let  us  find  common 
ground.  Promise  me  that  you  will  suspend  judgment 
in  this  matter  for  a  year,  your  promise  meantime  to 
be  revoked  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  we  will  take 
it  up  afresh.  This  will  give  time  for  sober  judg- 
ment." 

But  her  blanched  face  turned  to  mine,  and  the 


198  ST.    CUTH BERT'S 

white  lips  spoke  again.  "  Oh,  spare  me,  father,  for  I 
cannot — you  know  I  cannot — oh,  father,  pity  me  !  " 

My  soul  flamed  with  ungovernable  anger.  I  did 
pity  her  and  this  it  was  that  stirred  my  cruelty.  For 
my  soul  relapsed  to  barbarous  coarseness  and  I  said : 

"  Then  choose  between  us — you  can  have  your ," 

and  I  called  him  an  awful  word,  the  foulest  of  all 
words,  whose  very  sound  speaks  the  shame  it  means 
to  tell,  the  curse  of  humanity  hissed  in  its  nauseous 
syllables. 

And  more — but  how  can  I  write  it  down  !  I  did 
not  strike  her — but  I  thrust  her  from  me ;  I  laid  my 
coward  hand  upon  her  shoulder — not  in  violence  nor 
heavily,  but  eternal  menace  was  in  it.  For  I  pushed 
her  from  me,  crying  brutally  :  "  Quote  me  another 
Scripture.  Have  you  not  chosen  the  better  part? 
There  is  the  door  which  his  shadow  first  accursed— 
you  see  the  door  ?  "  and  I  hurled  the  poisoned  word 
at  her  again. 

She  looked  at  me  but  once — as  one,  suddenly 
awakening,  looks  at  her  assassin.  Then  she  went  out, 
a  lover  as  white  as  snow. 


XXI 

The  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG 

AS  a  stream  emerges  from  its  forest  tunnel, 
eluding  the  embrace  of  tangled  shadows, 
swiftly  gliding  from  sombre  swamps  and 
hurrying  towards  the  sunlit  plain,  its  phantom  weeds 
of  widowhood  exchanged  for  its  bridal  robe  of  light ; 
so  doth  this  tale  of  mine  glide  forth  from  the  sable 
shadows  which  garrison  the  chapter  it  has  left  be- 
hind. 

No  man  loves  to  linger  by  his  scaffold,  though  it 
be  cheated  of  its  last  adornment,  and  though  no  eye 
behold  its  grinning  outline  but  its  own.  For  there 
are  shadowy  scaffolds,  and  invisible  executioners,  sit- 
ting at  our  own  boards  and  eating  of  our  own  bread, 
discernible  only  in  a  glass.  Our  own  Sheriffs  and 
Executioners  are  we  all. 

Swift  in  the  wake  of  sorrow  came  the  unromantic 
form  of  toil.  Thank  God !  Work  is  sorrow's  cure, 
its  hands  like  the  hands  of  an  enemy,  but  its  voice 
the  voice  of  an  Eternal  friend.  For  duty  is  God's 
midwife,  sent  to  deliver  the  soul  that  travails  in  its 

anguish. 

199 


200  ST.   CUT H BERT'S 

It  was  but  the  day  after  Margaret  had  passed  from 
out  my  door,  girding  it  as  she  went  with  crape,  invis- 
ible to  other  eyes,  that  I  was  called  to  Archie  Mc- 
Cormack's  house.  The  day  was  bright  and  clear,  but 
I  knew  it  not — for  in  this  doth  sorrow  make  us  like 
to  God,  that  then  the  darkness  and  the  light  are  both 
alike. 

For  some  months  past,  my  old  precentor  had  been 
failing  fast.  The  doctor  said  it  was  his  heart,  but 
none  of  us  believed  it ;  for  his  heart  had  grown  larger, 
stronger,  happier  with  every  passing  year.  Its  outer 
life  might  perish  if  it  would,  but  its  inner  life  was  re- 
newed day  by  day.  Indeed,  his  soul's  second  harvest 
seemed  to  take  the  form  of  cheerfulness,  the  scantiest 
crop  of  all  in  the  stern  seasons  of  his  earlier  life. 
Even  merriment  sought  to  bloom  before  the  frost 
should  come. 

The  very  day  before  Margaret  and  I  began  our 
life's  Lenten  season,  I  had  been  to  see  him,  little  think- 
ing that  my  next  visit  was  to  be  the  last.  My  own 
heart  was  full  of  that  joy  whose  overflow  Margaret 
had  entrusted  to  its  care — which  is  a  great  gift  to  a 
minister,  this  gift  of  gladness,  seeking  as  he  does  to 
irrigate  the  thirsty  plains  of  life  about  him. 

"  How  is  my  precentor  to-day  ?  "  I  asked  as  I  sat 
down  at  the  blazing  hearth.  He  was  lying  on  the 
couch,  the  fourth  gradation — the  field,  the  veranda, 


The   OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    201 

the  room,  the  couch,  the  bed,  the  grave — thus  the 
promotion  runs  ! 

"  I'm  by  or'nar  glad  to  see  ye,"  he  replied, 
evasively.  "  The  auld  freens  are  the  best." 

"  That's  good,  Archie,  the  old  friends  are  glad  to 
hear  it.  They  hear  it  seldom  from  Scottish  lips, 
however  hopefully  they  suspect  it." 

"  We're  nae  muckle  given  to  compliments — I'll 
grant  ye  that.  But  whiles  we  think ;  an"  whiles  we 
speak — an'  whiles  we  wunna.  But  I'm  no  backward 
in  tellin'  a  man  gin  I  care  for  him.  Noo,  I  was 
sayin'  to  the  wife  this  verra  day  that  yon  man  ye 
brocht  frae  Montreal  last  simmer  was  like  eneuch  a 
graun  preacher — I'm  no  disputin'  that,  mind  ye.  But 
I  was  sayin'  to  the  wife  as  hoo  I  likit  yirsel'  fully 
mair  nor  him." 

I  smiled  with  pleasure,  for  the  process  was  an  in- 
teresting one.  Bouquets  look  strange  in  these  rough 
Scottish  hands — but  their  fragrance  is  the  sweeter  for 
all  that. 

"  I  understand,  Archie.  You  do  not  often  pay  a 
compliment,  but  I  know  its  sincerity  when  it  comes 
and  I  appreciate  it  all  the  same." 

He  had  not  finished,  for  he  felt  he  had  gone  too  far. 

"  Aye,  that's  what  I  was  sayin'  to  the  wife.  I  likit 
yirsel'  fully  better  nor  him — it's  different  ye  see ;  I'm 
gettin'  kind  o'  used  to  ye,  ye  ken ! " 


202  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

This  made  his  tribute  morally  complete.  Oh, 
thou  Scotchman !  Thou  canst  not  withhold  a  tinc- 
ture of  lemon  from  the  sweetest  cup ! 

"  But  how  is  my  precentor  to-day  ? "  I  renewed, 
fearful  of  additional  repairs  to  his  eulogy. 

"  Weel,  I'm  no'  complainin' — an'  I'm  no'  boastin' ; 
but  there's  mony  a  yin  waur.  I'm  no*  sufferin'  pain 
to  speak  o'.  I  can  sleep  at  nicht,  an'  I  tak  my  par- 
ritch,  an'  I  hae  ma  faculties — an'  I'm  in  God's  hauns," 
he  said,  the  climax  coming  with  unconscious  power. 

"  There's  no  better  bulletin  than  that,"  I  responded. 
"  I  see  you  still  take  your  smoke,  Archie,"  I  added 
cheerfully,  nodding  towards  an  ancient  trusty  pipe 
which  enjoyed  its  brief  respite  on  a  chair,  long  his 
familiar  friend,  and  noticeably  breathing  out  its 
loyalty  where  it  lay. 

"  Ou,  aye,  I  dinna  lack  for  ony  o'  the  needcessities 
o'  life,  thank  God,"  he  replied  gratefully,  and  with 
utter  seriousness. 

"  What  a  blessing  that  you  are  free  from  pain,"  I 
hurriedly  remarked ;  for  the  mouth,  like  a  capricious 
steed,  is  more  easily  controlled  when  it  is  in  motion. 

"  Aye,  that's  a  great  blessin'.  I've  been  uncom- 
mon free  frae  pain.  A  fortnight  syne,  I  had  a  verra 
worritsome  feelin'  in  ma  innerts — a  kind  o'  colic,  I'm 
jalousin'.  Sandy  Grant  said  as  how  whusky  wi'  a 
little  sulphur  was  gey  guid.  I  tell  't  him  I  never 


The   OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    203 

had  novvt  to  dae  wi'  sulphur  i'  ma  life,  an'  I  wudna 
begin  to  bother  wi't  noo ; "  and  Archie  lifted  his 
eyebrows,  adjusted  his  night-cap,  and  turned  upon  me 
a  very  solemn  smile. 

He  doubtless  saw  by  my  face  that  I  approved  his 
caution,  for  I  secretly  believed  that  he  was  right. 
Thus  confirmed,  he  lay  meditating  for  a  time,  but  it 
was  soon  made  evident  that  his  thoughts  had  not 
wandered  far  from  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  Aye,  sulphur's  nae  improvement  to  whusky,"  he 
slowly  averred  at  length,  "  forbye,  I  was  richt.  I  was 
richt  frae  a  medeecinal  standpoint,  ye  ken.  The 
verra  next  day  ma  doctor  ordered  me  to  tak  a  little 
whusky  for  the  pain  I  tell't  ye  o'.  An'  I  did ;  I  took 
it  afore  he  tell't  me." 

"And  it  did  you  good,  Archie?"  I  asked  in- 
dulgently. 

"  Guid  ? "  replied  Archie,  in  a  tone  of  much  re- 
proach. Then  he  said  no  more,  scorning  to  demon- 
strate an  axiom.  But  he  was  not  through  with  the 
subject.  The  moral  had  still  to  be  pointed. 

"  Is't  no  won'erfu',  minister,  the  law  o'  compensa- 
tion that  oor  Creator  gies  us,  to  reach  a'  through  oor 
lives? 

"  Pain  has  its  ither  side,  ye  ken.  An'  when  we  say 
as  hoo  it's  an  ill  wind  that  blaws  naebody  guid, 
we're  acknowledgin'  the  love  o'  the  Almichty.  Ilka 


204  ST.    CUTHBERr'S 

cloud  has  aye  its  siller  linin'.  Noo,  for  instance,  it 
was  a  fearfu'  pain  I  took — but  the  ither  that  I  took 
to  cure  it — it  was  Scotch,"  and  Archie  drew  a  gentle 
sigh,  half  of  piety  and  half  of  reminiscence. 


When  next  I  turned  my  steps  towards  Archie's 
door,  though  only  two  short  days  had  fled,  all  life 
had  changed  to  me  and  darkness  hung  about  me  like 
a  pall.  Upon  which  change  I  was  bitterly  reflecting 
when  I  was  interrupted  by  a  message  that  Archie 
was  taken  somewhat  worse  and  not  expected  to  live 
longer  than  through  the  night.  And  I  could  not  but 
be  glad  of  this  summons  from  my  own  life's  tragedy, 
that  I  might  share  another's.  It  is  God's  blessed 
way.  The  balm  for  secret  sorrow  is  in  the  bosom  of 
another  burden,  unselfishly  assumed ;  and  the  Cyre- 
nian  of  every  age  hath  this  for  his  hire,  that,  while  he 
bends  beneath  another's  cross,  he  is  disburdened  of 
his  own. 

I  found  my  old  precentor  weak,  and  failing  fast, 
but  "  verra  composed,"  as  we  say  in  New  Jedboro. 

He  welcomed  me  with  a  gentle  sniile. 

"  Ye'll  pray  wi'  me,"  he  said  gravely,  "  but  it'll  no' 
be  the  closin'  prayer.  I'm  wearin'  awa  fast,  but  I'll 
no'  leave  ye  till  the  morn,  I'm  dootin'.  Pit  up  a  bit 
prayer  noo — but  there's  ae  thing — dinna  mind  the 


The   OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    205 

Maister  o'  His  promise  to  come  again  an'  receive  me 
till  Himsel' — no'  that  it  isna  a  gowden  word ;  but  I 
want  it  keepit  till  the  last  an'  it's  the  last  word  I  want 
to  hear.  Speak  it  to  me  when  I  hear  the  surge. 
That'll  gie  Him  time  eneuch,  for  He'll  no'  be  far  awa. 
An'  I  want  to  hear  it  aboon  the  billows.  Noo  pit  up 
yir  prayer." 

Short  and  simple  were  our  petitions;  for  the 
prayer  of  little  children  is  best  for  those  who  are 
about  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God. 

After  we  had  finished,  my  eyes,  unknown  to  him, 
were  long  fixed  on  Archie's  face.  For  a  strange  in- 
terest centres  about  those  whose  loins  are  girded  for 
long  journeys  ;  and  I  have  never  outgrown  the  boy- 
ish awe  with  which  I  witnessed  the  loosening  of  the 
ropes  that  held  aerial  travellers  to  the  earth.  I  have 
seen  some  scores  of  persons  die, 

"  By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen," 

but  the  awful  tragedy  is  ever  new  and  familiarity 
breeds  increasing  reverence.  Death  is  a  hero  to  his 
valet. 

"  You  are  not  afraid,  Archie?  "  I  said  at  length — 
the  old  question  that  springs,  not  to  the  dying,  but  to 
the  living  lips. 

"  Afeart !  "  said  Archie,  "  what  wad  I  be  afeart 
for?" 


206  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  You  are  not  afraid  to  meet  your  Lord  ?  "  I  an- 
swered, inwardly  reproaching  myself  for  the  words. 

"  Afeart ! "  repeated  the  dying  man,  "  afeart  to 
meet  ma  Lord.  Why  should  I  be  feart  to  meet  a 
Man  that  died  for  me  ?  " 

I  inwardly  blessed  him  for  the  great  reply  and  en- 
gaged its  unanswerable  argument  for  my  next  Sab- 
bath's sermon.  No  man  dieth  unto  himself. 

"  Wull  ye  dae  something  for  me  ?  "  said  Archie, 
suddenly.  "  Wull  ye  write  to  a  man  I  kent  lang 
syne  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  I.     "  Who  is  the  man,  Archie?  " 

"  I'll  tell  ye,  gin  ma  hairt  hauds  guid  a  meenit. 
It's  Andra  Mathieson — an'  he  lives  in  San  Francisco. 
Him  an'  me  gaed  to  the  schule  thegither  in  the  Auld 
Country,  an'  I  hadna  seen  him  for  nigh  fifty  year  till 
last  Can'lemas  a  twalmonth,  when  I  gaed  to  San 
Francisco  for  ma  health.  He's  awfu'  rich.  He  lives 
in  a  graun  hoose  an'  he  has  a  coachman  wi'  yin  o' 
thae  coats  wi'  buttons.  But  I  gaed  to  see  him  an'  I 
needna  hae  been  sae  feart,  for  he  minded  on  me,  an' 
he  wadna  hear  o'  me  bidin'  at  the  taivern,  an'  he 
took  me  to  his  graun  hoose,  an'  he  was  ower  guid  to 
a  plain  cratur  like  me. 

"  Weel,  ae  mornin',  we  was  sittin',  haein'  oor  crack 
aboot  the  auld  days,  an'  the  schule,  an'  the  sheep  we 
herded  thegither  on  the  Ettrick  hills.  But  oor  crack 


The  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    207 

aye  harkit  back  to  the  kirk  an'  the  minister  an'  the 
catechism,  an'  a'  thae  deeper  things  o'  auld  lang 
syne.  He  said  as  hoo  he  had  gane  far  bye  thae 
things,  livin'  amang  the  stour  o'  a'  his  siller — but  he 
remarkit  that  he  aften  thocht  o'  the  auld  ways,  an' 
the  auld  tunes,  an'  the  minister  vvi'  his  goon  an' 
bands ;  an'  he  said  he  was  fair  starvin'  for  a  psalm — 
or  a  paraphrase.  They  dinna  sing  them  in  Amer- 
iky.  An'  I  lilted  yin  till  him — we  was  lookin'  far 
oot  at  the  Gowden  Gate,  an'  it  lookit  like  the  crystal 
water  ma  een'll  sune  see." 

Archie  stopped,  though  apparently  but  little  ex- 
hausted. His  eyes  seemed  flooded  with  tender  mem- 
ories of  that  momentous  hour  on  the  far  distant 
Pacific  Coast. 

"  What  psalm  did  you  sing  him  ? "  I  ventured, 
presently. 

"  It  was  a  paraphrase,"  he  answered,  the  smile  still 
upon  his  face.  "  It  was  the  twenty-sixth : 

" «  Ho  ye  that  thirst  approach  the  spring 
Where  living  waters  flow,' 

an'  Andra  grat  like  a  bairn : 

" '  I  haena  heard  it  sin  I  ran  barefit  aboot  the 
hills,'  he  said,  an'  he  wad  hae  me  sing  the  lines 
ower  again : 

" '  How  long  to  streams  of  false  delight 
Will  ye  in  crowds  repair  ? ' 


208  ST.   CUrHBERT'S 

an'  I'm  no'  worthy,  I  ken,  but  I  pit  up  a  bit  prayer 
wi'  him — ye  mauna  think  I'm  boastin',  sir,  but  I 
brocht  him  to  Christ,  an'  when  I  think  on't  noo,  it's 
lichtsome,  an'  I'm  minded  o'  that  simmer  sun  on  the 
Gowden  Gate.  Ye'll  write  to  him  an'  tell  him  we'll 
sing  a  psalm  thegither  yet." 

My  promise  given  and  Andrew  Mathieson's  ad- 
dress taken,  Archie  lay  silent  for  a  little  time.  Swift 
glances  at  myself,  swiftly  withdrawn,  denoted  his  de- 
sire to  say  something  more.  It  came  at  length  and 
with  unmistakable  directness. 

"  I'm  dootin'  I've  been  wrang ;  mebbe  I  was 
'  righteous  over-much.'  " 

"  What  is  it,  Archie  ?  "  I  said  soothingly.  "  Some 
sin  ?  Or  some  mistake  in  the  days  that  are  gone  ?  " 

"  I'm  no'  sayin'  it  was  the  yin  or  the  ither,"  replied 
the  old  precentor,  a  familiar  frosty  flavour  in  his 
voice,  "  an'  if  it  was,  I'll  no'  confess  it  to  ony  yin  but 
God — but  I'm  misdootin'  I  was  ower  hard  on  the 
hymes." 

"  What  hymns,  Archie  ?  "  I  asked,  seeking  only  to 
make  easier  his  acknowledgment  of  error,  ever  diffi- 
cult to  Scottish  lips.  For,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
Scotchmen  secretly  divide  sins  into  three  classes, 
those  of  omission,  of  commission,  and  of  admission. 

"  Ye  ken  fine,"  he  made  reply,  "  div  ye  no'  mind 
hoo  Margaret  an*  Angus  Strachan  compeared  afore 


The  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    209 

the  Kirk  Session  wi'  their  prayer  for  man-made 
hymes  i'  the  kirk  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Archie,  I  remember — the  Session  denied 
their  request." 

Ah  me,  I  thought,  how  much  has  befallen  Marga- 
ret and  Margaret's  father  since  that  night ! 

"  Ay,  I  ken  that ;  an'  I'm  no'  regrettin' — but  I'm 
dootin'  I  was  ower  hard  on  the  hymes.  My  speerit 
was  aye  ower  fiery  for  an  elder.  But  King  Dauvit 
himsel'  was  mair  fearsome  than  me  wi'  blasphemers 
— no'  to  ca'  Margaret  yin ;  but  I'm  mindin'  that  the 
Maister  aye  took  anither  way,  a  better  yin,  I'm 
dootin'.  An'  I'm  feart  I  was  mair  like  Dauvit,  for  a' 
I'd  raither  be  like  the  Maister." 

"  You  have  the  right  of  it,  Archie ;  He  showed  us 
the  more  excellent  way." 

"  Forbye,"  Archie  went  on,  pursuing  his  line  of 
thought,  "  I've  my  misgivin's  aboot  wha  wrote  thae 
hymes.  It  wasna  the  deevil,  an'  it  wasna  Watts,  an' 
it  wasna  yon  great  Methody  body;  they  set  them 
doon,  nae  doot — but  wha  started  them?  I'm  sair 
dootin'  they  had  their  rise  amang  the  hills,  the  same 
whaur  Dauvit  saw  the  glory  o'  God." 

"  Above  the  hills  of  time,"  I  added  softly. 

"  An'  what's  mair,  it  kind  o'  came  to  me  that  a 
hyme  micht  be  a  prayer,  ye  ken.  Noo,  your  prayer 
in  the  kirk  is  no'  inspired.  That  is,  no'  like  Dauvit's 


2io  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

psalms — but  it's  upliftin'  for  a'  that.  An'  I'm  thinkin' 
that  mebbe  it's  nae  waur  to  lilt  a  prayer  than  to 
speak  yin,  an'  mebbe  the  great  Methody  was  prayin' 
when  he  said : 

"  «  Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly,' 

an'  I'm  dootin'  we  micht  dae  waur  than  jine  wi'  him." 
"  There  is  no  more  fitting  prayer  for  such  an  hour 
as  this,"  I  responded,  thinking  it  meet  to  incline  his 
thoughts  towards  the  encircling  glow  with  which  the 
last  great  morning  was  already  illumining  his  face. 

But  Archie  still  pursued  his  line  of  thought.  No 
such  great  concession  as  this  was  to  be  left  unde- 
fined ;  this  codicil  to  his  whole  life's  will  and  testa- 
ment must  be  explained. 

"  I  ken  the  hymes  never  had  what  I  micht  ca'  a 
fair  chance  wi'  me.  My  faither  cudna  thole  them, 
an'  he  cudna  bide  ony  ither  body  to  thole  them.  He 
aye  said  the  heather  wasna  dry  yet  wi'  the  Cove- 
nanters' bluid.  Ma  ain  girlie,  wee  Kirsty, — she  likit 
them  fine,  but  I  forbade  her.  This  was  the  way  it 
cam  aboot — div  ye  mind  the  year  o'  the  Exposeetion 
in  Paris  ?  Weel,  me  an'  Kirsty's  mither  took  a  jaunt 
an'  gaed  till't.  We  was  ower  three  weeks  amang 
thae  foreign  fowk,  wi'  nae  parritch  an'  nae  psalm. 
We  gaed  frae  Paris  to  the  auld  hame  in  Ettrick,  an' 
'twas  like  gae'n  to  Abraham's  bosom  frae  the  ither 
place.  Weel,  the  first  Sabbath  day,  we  gaed  to  the 


The  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NElf  SONG    211 

auld  Scotch  kirk,  and  we  were  starvin'  for  the  bread 
o'  life. 

"  Naethin'  had  we  had  but  the  bit  sweeties  o'  the 
English  kirk  near  by,  wi'  their  confections — an'  ance 
we  gaed  to  the  Catholic,  but  it  was  a  holiday.  Weel, 
as  I  was  sayin',  we  gaed  to  the  Ettrick  kirk  an'  the 
minister  came  into  the  pulpit  wi'  his  goon  an'  bands 
— fair  graun  it  was. 

" '  Let  us  worship  God,'  he  said,  an'  'twas  like  the 
click  o'  the  gate  at  hame.  Then  he  gied  oot  a  psalm : 

**  •  So  they  from  strength  unwearied  go 
Still  forward  unto  strength.' 

"  The  precentor  was  naethin'  graun.  I  have  heard 
better  in  St.  Cuthbert's.  He  was  oot  mebbe  a  quar- 
ter o'  a  beat  in  his  time,  but  the  auld  words  had 
their  power;  'twas  like  as  if  I  heard  my  mither's  voice 
again,  an'  I  cudna  sing  for  greetin',  but  my  hairt  aye 
keepit  time,  an'  I  resolved  then  no'  to  let  Kirsty  sing 
the  hymes  ony  mair — but  I'm  misdootin'  I've  been 
wrang." 

Backward  rolled  the  night  and  onward  rolled  the 
day  as  we  kept  our  vigil  by  the  dying  bed.  Ever 
solemn  hour,  rehearsal  of  a  darker  yet  to  be !  For 
that  same  mystery  shall  wrap  every  watcher's  heart, 
and  others  then  shall  stand  by  the  fallen  sentinels. 

Archie  slumbered  and  waked  by  turns.     We  were 


212  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

just  beginning  to  feel  the  approach  of  the  magnetic 
dawn  when  he  awoke  from  an  hour's  sleep. 

"  The  nicht's  near  gane,"  he  said,  "  an'  I'll  sleep 
nae  mair ;  for  I  aye  likit  to  greet  the  mornin'  licht." 

We  gathered  closer,  the  old  childish  instinct  which 
drove  us  to  the  wharf's  very  edge  when  the  sails  were 
being  hoisted  and  the  anchor  weighed. 

He  beckoned  me  closer  and  I  bent  to  catch  his 
words. 

"  Ye  micht  gie  thae  thochts  o'  mine  to  the  Session 
gin  the  maitter  comes  up  again — aboot  the  hymes, 
ye  ken,  aboot  hoo  they  micht  be  made  intil  a 
prayer." 

I  silently  gave  the  promise. 

"  An'  mair — I  dinna  forbid  ye  to  sing  a  bit  hyme 
at  the  funeral.  Let  Wullie  Allison  lift  the  tune,  for 
he  aye  keeps  the  time.  Yon  Methody's  hyme  wad 
dae: 

"  '  Hide  me,  oh,  my  Saviour  hide 
Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past," 

for  the  wind'll  be  doon  then,  I'm  hopin'. 

"  The  fowk'll  think  it  strange,  for  they  a'  ken  my 
convictions,  sae  ye'd  better  close  wi"  a  paraphrase : 

" «  Then  will  He  own  His  servant's  name 
Before  His  father's  face.' 

That  wad  dae  fine,  for  it's  a'  o'  grace  thegither." 


The  OLD  PRECENTOR'S  NEW  SONG    213 

Archie  lay  silent  for  a  time,  breathing  heavily,  the 
tumult  of  the  last  great  conflict  blending  every  mo- 
ment with  the  peace  of  the  last  great  surrender.  An 
instant  later,  the  dying  face  seemed  lightened,  like 
one  who  descries  the  lights  of  home. 

"  I  canna  juist  mind  the  words  ;  is  it  the  outgoin'  o' 
the  mornin'  He  makes  to  rejoice?" 

"  And  the  evening,"  I  said  quickly,  "  the  evening 
too,  Archie." 

"  Aye,"  he  answered  peacefully,  "  I  thocht  He 
wadna  forget  tke  gloamin'.  Aye,  mair  the  evenin' 
than  the  mornin',  I'm  thinkin'." 

His  face  was  radiant  now,  for  the  morning  light 
had  passed  us  watchers  by,  its  glory  resting  on  the 
face  that  loved  to  greet  it. 

"  Haud  ma  haun,  guid-wife,"  his  voice  upborne  by 
the  buoyancy  of  death.  "  I'm  slippin'  fast  into  the 
licht.  I  see  what  they  ca'  the  gates  o'  deith.  The 
licht  has  found  them  oot.  They've  been  sair 
maligned,  I'm  thinkin'.  The  pulpit  has  misca'd 
them,  but  the  believer's  deein'  lips  can  ca'  them  fair. 
They're  the  gates  o'  deith,  nae  doot,  but  the  Maister 
hauds  the  keys." 

We  stood  as  close  to  the  old  precentor  as  we 
might,  but  we  were  in  the  shadow  still.  For  death 
seldom  shares  his  surprises  with  the  alien  and  is  self- 
ish with  his  secret  luxuries. 


214  Sr.   CUTHBERT'S 

"  Hark  ye ! "  the  dying  man  suddenly  cried. 
"  Div  ye  no'  hear  the  sang  ?  It's  graun  ayont  the 
thocht  o'  man.  They're  a'  in  white,  an'  it's  '  Martyr- 
dom '  is  the  tune.  Wha's  leadin'  them  ?  I  see  Him 
fine ;  it's  Him  wha  made  the  sang  itsel'.  It's  Him 
wha's  leadin'  them.  Div  ye  no'  ken  what  they're 
singin'?  It's  the  new  sang,  the  sang  o'  Moses  an' 
the  Lamb.  An'  hark  ye  !  it's  the  same  as  the  psalm 
my  mither  taught  me.  I  canna  tell  the  yin  frae  the 
ither." 

And  the  old  precentor  hurried  on  to  join  the  choir 
invisible. 


XXII 

"The  MILLS  of  The   GODS" 

MARGARET  was  home  again.  She  had 
been  gone  from  us  two  immeasurable 
days.  It  was  Mr.  Blake  who  rang  the 
bell,  for  it  was  his  house  had  sheltered  her  when  my 
cruel  anger  drove  her  from  my  own.  Need  and  sor- 
row never  turned  to  him  in  vain. 

When  the  door  was  opened,  Margaret  stood  before 
it  alone.  Her  mother  it  was  who  opened  unto  her, 
for  this  is  woman's  oldest  and  holiest  avocation,  door- 
keeper unto  wandering  feet.  In  all  His  delicate 
missions  woman  is  God's  deputy. 

Through  all  my  narrative  of  this  sad  affair  I  have 
said  but  little  of  Margaret's  mother,  but  I  know  my 
readers  have  discerned  her  presence  amid  it  all,  as  one 
discerns  a  brooding  mountain  through  the  mist. 
The  great  background  of  every  tragedy  is  a  woman's 
stately  sorrow. 

I  had  been  visiting  the  sick,  far  more  for  my  sake 
than  for  theirs,  and  was  not  home  when  Margaret 
returned.  But  a  nameless  fragrance  greeted  me  at 
the  door,  and  in  my  study  I  found  Margaret  in  her 
mother's  arms.  The  latter  quietly  withdrew  and  the 

215 


216  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

compact  between  father  and  daughter  was  soon  com- 
plete. It  was  of  mutual  surrender,  wherein  is  mutual 
peace.  Margaret's  only  word  was  that  she  could  not 
give  her  father  up — nor  Angus — that  I  must  say 
nothing  more  about  her  love  and  that  we  must  wait 
— together.  Which  was  all  sweet  enough  to  me,  for 
she  was  mine  again,  and  our  manse  light  had  been 
rekindled. 

For  the  rest,  I  was  willing  to  wait,  on  which  after 
all  hangs  the  reality  of  all  joy  or  sorrow.  Every 
grief  hath  that  opportunity  of  cure ;  every  joy  that 
peril  of  vicissitude.  Till  time  hath  ceased  from  her 
travail,  no  man  can  tell  her  offspring's  sex,  whether 
it  be  rugged  care,  or  sweet  and  tender  joy. 

Meantime,  Margaret  nestled  again  within  the  old 
tender  place  and  we  both  struggled  to  nourish  our 
phantom  joy.  Counterfeit  though  we  both  discerned 
it,  yet  it  passed  unchallenged  between  us  and  at  least 
kept  our  souls'  commerce  from  decay.  Counterfeit 
I  have  called  it,  for  the  tenure  of  another's  love  was 
upon  her ;  and  her  stay  with  us  was  like  that  of  a 
sailor  lad  who  is  for  a  time  ashore,  waiting  for  the 

tardy  tide. 

****** 

The  ordination  Sabbath  was  aglow  with  holy  light. 
God  surely  loves  Presbyterian  high  days,  for  they  are 
nearly  always  beautiful.  St.  Cuthbert's  was  filled 


"The  MILLS  of  The  GODS"       217 

long  before  eleven  with  a  reverent  and  expectant  con- 
gregation. Five  new  elders  had  been  elected,  three 
of  them  their  father's  successors,  for  this  was  a  com- 
mon custom  in  New  Jedboro,  and  apostolic  succession 
in  disguise  was  in  high  favour  amongst  us.  Another 
was  a  man  of  seventy  or  more,  for  every  ordination 
must  recognize  the  stalwarts  whose  days  of  activity 
were  past  but  whose  time  for  honour  was  at  hand. 
The  remaining  elder-elect  was  Angus  Strachan.  His 
choice  by  the  congregation  had  been  unanimous  and 
cordial.  His  examination  by  the  Session  had  re- 
sulted in  hearty  confirmation.  Our  manse  tragedy 
was  unknown  to  any  of  the  elders  except  Mr.  Blake, 
who  preserved  complete  silence  throughout  the  in- 
terview. The  ordeal  was  painful  beyond  words  to  me 
— but  it  was  over,  and  Angus  sat  in  the  front  pew 
with  the  other  four,  awaiting  ordination  to  their  sacred 
office. 

We  had  sung  the  psalm  which  from  time  immemo- 
rial Presbyterian  ministers  have  announced  on  all  ec- 
clesiastical occasions,  the  hundred  and  second  psalm, 
the  second  version,  from  the  thirteenth  verse,  reading 
over  again,  as  their  habit  is,  the  first  two  lines  : 

"  Thou  shalt  arise  and  mercy  yet 
Thou  to  Mount  Zion  shalt  extend ;  " 

the  venerable  Dr.  Inglis  of  Moffat  had  preached  the 
sermon  from  the  text : — "  Feed  the  flock  of  God 


218  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

which  is  among  you,"  and  the  elders  elect  took  their 
places  before  the  pulpit. 

I  addressed  them  in  what  I  considered  fitting  terms, 
recalling  the  great  traditions  of  the  church  they  were 
called  to  serve  and  the  noble  labours  of  the  godly  men 
whose  mantles  had  now  fallen  upon  themselves.  I 
referred  to  our  precious  legacy,  bequeathed  to  us  from 
the  hands  of  Covenanters,  and  a  reverent  hush 
throughout  the  whole  congregation  applauded  the 
names  of  Renwick  and  Peden  and  Cameron,  as  they 
fell  from  my  lips. 

Then  all  the  elders  took  their  places  beside  me,  for 
the  act  of  ordination  was  about  to  be  performed. 
This  consisted  of  prayer  and  the  laying  on  of  hands 
— not  of  the  minister's  hands  alone,  for  we  in  St. 
Cuthbert's  adhered  to  the  ancient  Scottish  mode  of 
ordination  by  the  laying  on  of  the  hands  of  the  entire 
Session. 

The  candidates  kneeled  before  us,  Angus  on  my 
right,  having  changed  his  place  for  some  unapparent 
reason,  soon  to  be  abundantly  revealed.  The  hands 
first  outstretched  towards  his  bended  head  were  those 
of  Mr.  Blake.  Whereupon  an  awful  thing  befell  us ; 
for  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  kirk  was  broken  by  the 
ringing  of  a  voice  aflame  with  passion  : — "  Take  back 
your  hand — touch  not  a  hair  of  my  head.  Go 
cleanse  your  hand.  Go  purify  your  heart — they  are 


"The  MILLS  of  The  GODS"        219 

both  polluted.  Whited  sepulchre,  give  up  your 
dead — let  the  rotting  memories  walk  forth.  Go  wash 
another's  blood  from  your  guilty  soul  before  you  dare 
to  serve  at  God's  altar !  " 

The  trembling  object  of  this  outburst  shrank  back 
from  before  it.  The  kneeling  candidates  bowed 
lower.  I  myself  stood  as  one  in  a  fearful  dream, 
while  the  horror-stricken  people  half  rose  within 
their  pews,  bending  forward  as  they  gazed  at  the 
sacrilegious  scene. 

Angus  turned  and  looked  unflinchingly  into  their 
faces.  I  feared  he  was  about  to  speak  again  and  I 
raised  my  hand  to  signify  forbiddal — but  he  saw  it  not, 
and  my  inward  protest  yielded  to  his  fiery  purpose. 

"  Aye,  you  may  well  look,"  he  cried  to  the  awe- 
struck worshippers.  "  God  knows  I  had  not  meant  to 
do  this  thing  or  to  speak  these  words.  I  came  here 
with  the  honest  purpose  to  assume  the  vows  that 
should  forever  bind  me  to  His  service.  My  heart  was 
honest  before  God ;  but  when  I  felt  the  approach  of 
those  guilty  hands  it  was  beyond  my  power  to  endure 
their  touch.  Nor  should  I  feel  shame  for  what  I  have 
done.  You  remember  the  scourge  of  knotted  cords 
and  the  holy  temple.  Is  it  wrong  that  I  too  should 
now  seek  to  drive  forth  this  unworthy  man  ?  He 
stands  unmasked  before  you.  You  know  not  who  he 
is  !  He  is  my  father  and  we  share  our  shame  together ! 


220  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

Another  shares  it  with  her  God  where  the  Ettrick 
water  hears  her  prayer.  And  this  is  the  man  whose 
hands  would  convey  the  grace  of  God  !  " 

He  stopped ;  and  the  blanched  faces  before  him 
gave  back  a  voice,  half  cry,  half  sob,  anguish  rending 
every  heart.  They  were  a  proud  folk  in  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  ;  besides  no  man  of  all  the  elders  was  so  dear  to 
them  as  Mr.  Blake,  his  piety  and  philanthropy  so 
long  tried  and  proved.  Although  we  know  it  not, 
there  is  no  asset  held  more  dear  than  the  solvency  of 
a  man  in  whom  we  vest  the  precious  savings  of  our 
confidence. 

Every  eye  and  heart  seemed  turned  towards  the 
man  so  fiercely  accused,  silently  entreating  him  to  re- 
lieve the  cruel  tension. 

None  doubted  that  his  swift  denial  would  confirm 
the  confidence  of  our  loyal  hearts.  But  the  silence 
drew  itself  out,  moment  after  moment,  each  bequeath- 
ing its  legacy  of  pain  to  its  successor.  Mr.  Blake's 
eyes  were  raptly  fixed  on  his  accuser — his  traducer, 
as  we  secretly  defined  him.  Their  light  was  not  the 
glow  of  wrath,  nor  of  resentment,  but  of  a  strange 
wistful  curiosity,  mixed  with  eager  yearning.  Fear 
and  love  seemed  to  look  out  together. 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  Angus  swiftly  handed 
to  me  a  small  picture,  encased  after  an  ancient 
fashion. 


•'The  MILLS  of  The  GODS"        221 

"  Look  at  that,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  will  tell  its  tale 
— that  is  my  father's  face." 

I  looked  with  eager  intentness,  and  it  required 
but  a  glance  to  show  that  the  pictured  face  before 
me,  and  the  pallid  face  beside  me,  were  the  same. 
The  picture  was  evidently  taken  long  years  before, 
and  the  stamp  of  youth  and  hope  and  ardent  faith 
was  upon  the  face.  Locks  raven  black,  and  an  un- 
wrinkled  brow,  had  been  exchanged  for  those  that 
bore  the  scar  of  time  and  care ;  but  no  careful  eye 
could  fail  to  see  that  the  youthful  face  of  the  picture 
and  the  ashen  face  of  the  elder  were  one  and  the 
same. 

But, — more  striking  and  fatal  far — the  photo- 
graph's evidence  was  not  required.  No  man  who 
saw,  as  I  saw,  the  faces  of  Michael  Blake  and  Angus 
Strachan  side  by  side  need  wait  for  other  evidence- 
Often  had  I  seen  them  thus  before — but  never  in  the 
nakedness  of  passion. 

Passion  has  the  artist's  magic  hand  and  her  master 
sketch  is  ever  of  her  home.  As  Titian's  immortal 
hills  were  but  the  reproduction  of  his  far-off  dwelling- 
place,  genius  plighting  its  troth  to  childhood,  so  doth 
passion  illumine  first  the  environs  of  her  long  time 
home,  how  humble  so  ever  it  may  be.  Passion 
paints  the  eternal  childlike  that  is  in  us  all.  The 
face  is  the  window  through  which  the  vista  of  a 


222  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

soul's  inner  life  is  flashed  by  her  mystic  hand,  and  in 
that  moment  the  window  glows  with  the  unfeigned 
light  of  childhood,  its  simple  radiance  still  un- 
quenched,  though  long  draped  by  artificial  years. 

Thus  transfigured  were  the  faces  of  Angus 
Strachan  and  Michael  Blake — the  one  with  mingled 
love  and  fear,  the  other  with  unmingled  scorn. 
With  that  swift  intensity  of  passion  came  the  re- 
versal to  their  common  type,  and  the  great  betrayal 
was  complete.  The  blood  they  shared  together, 
speaking  a  kindred  language,  had  turned  King's  evi- 
dence at  last,  and  its  unanswerable  testimony  leaped 
from  face  and  eye. 

For  God  hath  His  silent  witnesses,  like  John  the 
Baptist,  by  us  shut  up  in  prison  and  by  us  beheaded 
— but  He  calleth  them  to  the  witness-stand  as  pleas- 
eth  Him ;  and  they  live  forever  in  dreadful  gospels 
of  love  and  doom,  the  latter  sharing  the  power  of 
the  former's  endless  life.  Their  voice  is  heard  above 
Herodias'  strains  of  revelry  and  even  sceptred  Sad- 
ducees  tremble  at  the  sound. 

Vast  is  life's  mighty  forest,  but  the  wronger  and 
the  wronged  meet  somewhere  amid  its  shadowy 
glades.  Surely  life's  wooded  maze  might  afford  a 
hiding  place  to  those  who  fly  from  armed  memories 
— but  God's  rangers  tread  its  every  glen  with  stealthy 
step  and  the  foliage  of  every  thicket  gleams  with  the 


"The  MILLS  of  The  GODS"        223 

armour  of  His  detective  host.  A  chance  meeting,  a 
foundling  acquaintance,  a  stray  newspaper,  an  un- 
destroyed  letter,  a  resurgent  memory,  a  neglected 
photograph,  or,  as  here,  a  tell-tale  tide  of  blood — all 
these  have  accepted  God's  retainer  and  bear  the  in- 
visible badge  that  denotes  His  world-spread  Force. 
All  life's  apparent  discord  is  harmony  itself  when  He 
determines  the  departments  and  allots  to  every  thing, 
and  to  every  man,  his  work ! 

"  You  speak  of  Ettrick !  What  know  you  of 
Ettrick?  What  is  her  name  that  lives  there?"  I 
heard  Mr.  Blake  ask  in  a  faltering  whisper,  unheard 
by  the  rigid  worshippers. 

"  She  bears  no  name  save  that  which  you  defiled 
— it  shall  not  be  spoken  here,  though  I  honour  it 
with  my  deepest  heart — but  look  on  this,"  and 
Angus  held  out  before  him  what  he  had  drawn  from 
his  bosom  as  he  spoke. 

Michael  Blake's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  it,  no  word 
or  sound  coming  from  his  lips.  His  eyes  clung  to  it 
with  tranquil  eagerness,  unconscious  of  all  about, 
still  clinging  when  Angus  withdrew  it,  wrapped  it 
in  the  paper  which  had  enclosed  it,  and  restored  it  to 
its  hiding-place. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him 
eagerly : 

"  Let  me  see  it,  A  ngus  ;  my  own  mother  is  with  God." 


224  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

He  hesitated  but  a  moment,  then  drew  it  forth  and 
handed  it  to  me. 

"  All  the  world  may  see  it,"  he  said  quietly,  "  it  is 
my  mother — you  may  read  the  letter  if  you  will." 

The  portrait  was  of  a  woman  still  rich  with  girl- 
hood's charm.  Of  about  nineteen  years,  I  should 
say,  tall  and  graceful  and  sweet  of  countenance,  with 
a  great  wealth  of  hair,  with  eyes  that  no  flame  but 
love's  could  have  kindled,  her  lips,  even  in  a  picture, 
instinct  with  pure  passion,  and  her  whole  being  evi- 
dently fragrant  and  luscious  as  Scottish  girlhood 
alone  can  be.  For  the  sweetest  flowers  are  nour- 
ished at  the  breast  of  the  most  rugged  hills. 

I  was  still  reading  the  story  of  love  and  innocence 
and  hope,  all  of  which  were  written  in  the  lovely 
face  before  me,  when  Angus  said  very  gently : 

"  Read  the  letter,  sir." 

The  writing  on  the  paper  which  enclosed  the  pic- 
ture had  escaped  my  notice.  It  was  a  letter  from 
Angus'  mother,  sent  with  the  daguerreotypes.  Its 
closing  words  ran  thus : 

"  I  send  ye  this  picture  o'  masel'  and  the  ane  o' 
the  man  I  loved  sae  weel.  No  ither  picture  have  I 
had  taken,  nor  ither  shall  there  be.  It  was  taken  for 
yir  faither  before  the  gloamin'  settled  doon  on  you 
and  me,  ma  laddie.  It  was  taken  for  him,  as  was 
every  breath  I  drew,  for  I  loved  him  wi'  every  ane. 


"The  MILLS  of  The  GODS''       225 

"  Ye  maunna  think  ower  hard  o'  him,  laddie,  for  yir 
mother  canna  drive  him  forth,  so  ye  maun  bide  the- 
gither  in  this  broken  hairt  o'  mine.  And  laddie,  I 
am  askin'  God  to  keep  me  pure,  for  my  love  will  hae 
its  bloom  some  day  far  ayont  us,  like  the  bonny 
heather  when  the  winter's  bye.  And  I  want  to  be 
worthy  when  it  comes.  I'm  sair  soiled,  I  ken,  but 
love  can  weave  its  robe  o'  white  for  the  very  hairt  it 
stained.  And  I  maun  be  true  till  the  gloamin's  gone. 
So  think  o'  yir  mother  as  aye  true  to  yir  faither,  and 
it'll  mebbe  help  yir  sorrow  to  ken  there's  aye  this 
bond  between  yir  faither  and  her  wha  bore  ye.  And 
Angus,  dinna  let  him  ken,  gin  ye  should  ever  meet. 
Yir  mother's  bearin'  her  sorrow  all  alane  in  Ettrick 
and  her  laddie'll  bear  it  ayont  the  ocean.  We're  a' 
in  God's  guid  hands.  Your  loving  mother, 

JANET  STRACHAN." 

I  returned  the  well  worn  letter  to  the  unhappy 
hand  from  which  I  had  received  it.  He  tenderly 
wrapped  it  about  his  mother's  picture  and  thrust  the 
parcel  back  beside  the  loyal  heart  which  shared,  as  it 
was  bidden,  the  great  sorrow  and  disgrace. 

I  then  cast  about  in  my  mind  for  the  next  step 
which  should  be  taken.  Ordination  I  knew  there  could 
now  be  none.  The  pestilence  of  anger  and  shame  and 
sin  was  upon  us  all.  Dark  horror  sat  upon  the  faces 


226  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

of  the  waiting  congregation,  their  eyes  still  fixed  on 
these  two  actors  of  this  so  sudden  tragedy.  It  may 
have  been  that  the  proof  of  kinship,  as  demonstrated 
by  these  confronting  faces,  was  finding  its  way  into 
their  hearts.  These  faces  were  still  fastened  the  one 
upon  the  other,  the  younger  with  glowing  scorn,  the 
older  with  mingled  love  and  tenderness,  blended  with 
infinite  self-reproach. 

I  could  see  no  course  open  to  me  except  the  dis- 
missal of  the  congregation,  and  so  announced  my 
purpose. 

"  The  Kirk  Session  is  adjourned  sine  die,"  I  said, 
for  this  is  an  ancient  phrase  and  the  proper  forms 
must  be  observed.  Even  when  our  dearest  lies  in  her 
coffin,  there  are  certain  phrases  which  announce  in 
cold  and  heartless  print  that  the  heart's  life-blood  is 
flowing  from  its  wound,  and,  however  sacred  that 
silent  form,  the  undertaker's  hands  must  have  their 
will  with  it. 

"  Moderator."  It  was  Thomas  Laidlaw's  voice. 
"  Moderator,  we  hae  heard  but  ae  side.  There's 
aye  twa  sides.  Will  ye  no'  let  the  accused  speak  for 
himsel'  ?  Fair  play  is  bonny  play." 

A  moment's  thought  was  enough  to  assure  me  as 
to  what  was  right. 

"  By  all  means,"  I  answered,  sadly  enough,  for  1 
had  but  little  hope  that  any  defense  could  be  offered. 


"The  MILLS  of  The  GODS"       227 

"  Mr.  Blake  may  certainly  speak  if  he  wishes — it  is 
but  fair.  Have  you  anything  to  say,  Mr.  Blake  ?  " 

As  I  turned  towards  the  older  man  the  younger 
withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  face  on  which  they  had 
so  long  been  fixed,  and  slowly  rising,  Angus  walked 
down  the  aisle  towards  the  door,  conscious  that  he 
himself  had  proclaimed  his  bitter  shame;  but  his 
mother's  name  seemed  written  on  his  forehead,  re- 
deemed by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own.  He  had  gone 
but  a  quarter  of  the  way  or  so,  when  a  trembling 
voice  was  heard. 

"  Angus,  wait,"  it  said ;  the  voice  was  faint  and 
tremulous  like  a  birdling's  note — but  Angus  heard  it 
and  stood  still.  He  turned  towards  the  pew  whence 
it  came,  and  a  face  met  his  own,  a  woman's  face, 
blanched  and  pale,  except  for  two  burning  spots  upon 
her  cheeks  where  the  heart  had  unfurled  its  banners. 
It  was  a  woman's  voice,  I  say,  and  the  eyes  that 
looked  out  from  it  sought  his  own  with  a  great  caress 
of  loyalty  and  love.  The  glowing  eyes,  and  the 
parted  lips,  and  the  quick  flowing  breath,  all  spoke  the 
bridal  passion ;  for  the  bride's  glory  is  in  surrender, 
the  bodily  sacrifice  but  the  pledge  of  her  blended  and 
surrendered  life,  lost  in  another's  mastering  love. 

"  Angus,  wait,"  she  murmured  again,  her  dainty 
gloved  hand  upon  the  book-board  as  she  essayed  to 
rise.  Her  mother  sought  to  restrain  her,  but  her 


228  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

touch  was  powerless ;  for  the  outgoing  tide  was  at  its 
full. 

"  He  shall  not  walk  down  that  aisle  alone,"  she 
faltered  to  her  mother,  the  words  unheard  by  others. 
"  We  shall  go  down  together." 


XXIII 
A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS 

PERHAPS  her  mother's  woman-heart  realized 
in  that  moment  that  the  one  path  irresistible 
to  a  woman's  love  is  the  path  of  sacrifice.  In 
any  case  she  ceased  from  her  protest  and  the  gentle 
form  arose;  moving  out  to  where  he  stood,  she 
slipped  her  dear  hand  into  Angus's,  and  together 
they  walked  slowly  down  the  aisle  of  the  crowded 
church.  No  sideward  glance  they  cast  nor  backward 
did  Margaret  ever  look.  Sweet  courage  was  shining 
from  her  face,  even  joy,  as  they  passed  out  together 
— the  long  stride  of  the  stalwart  man  and  the  gentle 
step  of  the  dainty  maiden,  but  ever  hand  in  hand, 
hidden  from  the  strife  of  tongues,  in  love's  pavilion 
hidden. 

They  had  wandered,  knowing  not  where  or 
whither,  some  distance  from  the  church,  when  Angus 
stopped,  and  fixing  his  reverent  look  on  Margaret's 
strangely  happy  face,  he  said : 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  have  done ;  you  have 
tarnished  your  name — oh,  Margaret,  why  did  you  do 
it  ?  From  henceforth  you  will  share  the  shame  that 
belongs  to  me." 

239 


230  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

Margaret's  face  was  upturned  to  his  own. 

"  Is  not  the  sunshine  sweet,  Angus  ?  And  so  pure ! 
Surely  God  loves  us  well ! " 

"  It  shines  upon  no  man  so  sad  as  I,"  he  replied 
bitterly. 

"  Angus !  After  what  I  did — and  the  church  so 
full!" 

"  Nor  so  happy — and  so  proud ! "  concluded  Angus. 
"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Anywhere,"  answered  Margaret ;  "  we  shall  walk 
the  long  walk  together." 

"  No,  dear  one,  not  together,  that  cannot  be — 
but  not  apart,"  said  Angus,  his  voice  trembling. 

"  Do  you  know,  Angus,"  said  Margaret  after  a  pause, 
"  I  had  often  read  about  how  engagements  should  be 
announced.  And  no  one,  almost  no  one  knew  that 
you  loved  me.  And  after  that  first  time  when  you  told 
me  you  loved  me — and  before  you  told  me  that  other 
— I  so  often  used  to  lie  awake  and  think  about  how 
ours  should  be  announced.  For  I  think  that  is  the 
sweetest  thing  in  a  girl's  life,  the  announcement  I 
mean — no  I  don't  mean  that — the  sweetest  thing  is 
what  has  to  be  told.  And  now  it  is  all  told — and  just 
to  think  it  was  done  in  a  church  and  before  all  those 
people.  And  now  they  all  know — and  I  am  so 
glad !  No  girl  ever  had  it  done  like  this  before." 

"  Glad  ?  "  said  Angus. 


A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS  231 

"  Yes,  glad — and  proud — aren't  you  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  response,  save  the  old,  old  silent 
eloquence  of  love,  when  lip  speaks  to  lip  its  tender 
tale,  scorning  the  aid  of  words. 

"  Let  us  go  this  way,"  said  Margaret  at  length. 

"  Where  does  it  lead  to  ?  " 

"  You  shall  see,"  she  answered ;  "  come  away  " — 
and  together,  still  hand  in  hand,  they  walked  on. 

"  Let  us  rest  here,  Angus."  He  threw  himself  on 
the  grass  at  her  feet. 

"  Do  you  not  know  the  place  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Angus,  "  were  we  ever  here  before  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Angus,  how  could  you  forget  ?  Look 
again." 

He  looked  again  and  sacred  twilight  memories  be- 
gan to  pour  back  upon  him. 

"  That  was  in  the  gloaming,  Angus,  you  remember. 
.And  the  darkness  has  often  brooded  over  it  since 
then — but  it  is  all  past  now  and  it  never  was  so 
bright  before." 

"  The  darkness  will  come  again,"  said  Angus. 

"  But  it  will  never  be  able  to  forget  the  light — and 

it  will  wait There  is  never  any  real  brightness 

till  the  waiting's  past." 

The  Sabbath  stillness  was  about  them  and  its  peace 
was  in  their  hearts.  They  scarce  knew  why,  and  the 
world  would  have  said  that  Shadow  was  their  por- 


232  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

tion ;  but,  then  and  ever,  true  peace  passeth  all  un- 
derstanding. 

"  Kneel  down,  Angus,  kneel  here  beside  me,"  she 
suddenly  exclaimed. 

"  Kneel,  Margaret !     Why  shall  I  kneel  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  why — you  shall  see.  Kneel  down, 
Angus." 

He  knelt,  wondering  still ;  she  removed  his  hat 
with  her  now  ungloved  hands  and  threw  it  on  the 
grass. 

"  Darling,  I  love  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  know  you 
are  good  and  true.  And  I  was  so  proud  this  morning 
when  you  were  to  be  ordained  to  God's  holy  service — 
and  it  must  not  be  broken  off  like  this.  Oh,  Angus, 
when  I  saw  your  face  this  morning,  I  feared  so  that 
your  whole  soul  would  turn  to  bitterness  and  give  it- 
self up  t6  hatred  of  that  man.  But  it  must  not  be." 

"  Margaret,  stop  !     Surely  you  must  know ' 

"  Be  still,  Angus — it  must  not  be.  All  this  an- 
guish must  break  in  blessing.  Sorrow  such  as  yours 
will  be  either  a  curse  or  a  blessing — and  it  must  not 
be  a  curse.  God's  love  can  turn  it  into  blessing — 
and  so  can  mine.  We  shall  take  up  our  cross  to- 
gether and  shall  see  it  blossom  yet.  Oh,  Angus,  if  I 
can  forgive  him,  you  can,  for  you  are  dearer  to  me 
than  to  anybody  else."  Her  hands  were  now  upon 
his  head : — "  Angus  Strachan,  I  ordain  you  to  suffer 


A   MAIDEN  PRIESTESS  233 

and  to  wait.  I  ordain  you  to  God's  service  in  the 
name  of  love  and  sorrow  and  God — and  they're  all 
the  same  name — and  I  love  you  so — and  you  are  an 
elder  now.  Oh,  dear  Lord,  take  care  of  our  love  and 
make  us  true — and  patient.  And  bless  our  sorrow 
and  make  it  sweet  and  keep  us  near  the  Man  of  Sor- 
rows. Amen." 

The  white  dimpled  hands  rested  long  upon  the 
auburn  locks  of  the  still  bended  head,  and  her  com- 
passion flowed  through  them  to  the  more  than 
orphaned  heart.  It  was  the  same  head,  she  thought, 
and  the  same  heart,  as  had  once  been  blessed  by  a 
mother's  anguished  hand,  doomed,  as  that  mother 
knew,  to  the  world's  unreasoning  scorn. 

Her  own  peace  seemed  to  pass  into  his  troubled 
soul ;  the  anointed  head  bowed  lower  and  the  yoke 
was  laid  upon  him,  never  to  be  withdrawn.  But  its 
bitterness  was  gone,  purged  from  it  by  those  white 
dimpled  hands,  and  the  fragance  of  a  soul's  sweeter 
life  was  there  instead.  For  there  had  come  to  him 
that  great  moment  when  secret  rebellion  turns  to 
secret  prayer,  craving  blessing  from  the  very  hand 
that  had  smitten  him  with  lameness ;  and  Angus  was 
making  his  ordination  vows  to  God. 

Upon  that  grassy  knoll,  under  heaven's  tender  sky, 
with  unmoving  lips  and  broken  heart  he  made  the 
great  surrender.  Patience  he  promised  God ;  and  in 


234  ST.   CUTHBERTS 

return  he  begged  the  forgiving  heart,  the  strength  to 
bear  his  lifelong  load,  and  the  aid  which  might  enable 
him  to  attain  that  miracle  of  grace  when  he  yet  should 
pray  for  the  man  whose  sin  had  foreclothed  his  life 
in  shame. 

"  Let  us  go  back,"  said  Margaret,  at  length,  for  the 
sun  was  westering. 

"  Yes,  we  will  go  back,"  said  he,  for  in  the  gentle 
words  he  heard  the  bugle  call ;  "  we  will  go  back." 
But  first  he  kissed  the  ordaining  hands,  anointed  as 
they  had  been  to  cast  out  evil  from  the  heart  and  to 
bind  up  its  brokenness. 

Homeward  they  turned  their  steps,  and  the  noises 
of  the  uncaring  world  soon  fell  upon  their  ears,  but 
their  hearts  were  holden  of  another  song,  and  they 
heard  them  not. 

Backward  they  bent  their  way  to  the  world  and 
its  cruel  pity — but  ever  hand  in  hand. 


As  the  reader  already  knows,  Margaret  and  Angus 
went  forth  from  St.  Cuthbert's  Church  just  as 
Michael  Blake  was  invited  to  speak  in  his  own  de- 
fense and  to  answer,  if  he  might,  the  dread  charge  of 
his  accuser. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say,  Mr.  Blake  ? "  were 
the  words  I  had  just  uttered  when  Margaret  and  her 


A   MAIDEN  PRIESTESS  235 

lover  left  the  church,  with  all  the  sequel  which  hath 
been  just  recorded. 

In  answer,  he  watched  the  retreating  forms  till 
they  had  departed,  then  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
He  sat  thus  so  long  that  I  concluded  he  had  no 
heart  to  speak,  and  again  arose,  my  hand  outstretched 
to  give  the  blessing,  if  blessing  there  might  be  in 
such  an  hour.  The  congregation  arose  to  receive 
the  proffered  benediction,  but  before  my  lips  had 
opened,  a  faint  hand  plucked  my  gown. 

"  I  will  speak,  sir,"  and  pale  and  trembling  the  un- 
happy man  rose  and  stood  beside  me.  I  resumed 
my  seat  and  the  people  dumbly  did  the  same,  gazing 
towards  their  elder  with  eyes  that  pleaded  for  the  as- 
surance of  his  innocence.  Twice  or  thrice  he  strove 
for  utterance  before  the  words  would  come.  At 
length  he  spoke. 

"  Moderator  and  brethren,"  he  began,  "  if  such  as 
I  may  call  you  brethren.  I  am  a  sinful  man.  My 
hour  has  come.  God's  clock  has  struck,  and  it  is  the 
stroke  of  doom  for  my  unworthy  soul.  Not  that  I 
despair  of  final  mercy,  for  mine  is  a  scarlet  sin,  and 
for  such  there  is  a  special  promise.  But  God's  rod 
hath  fallen  upon  me.  The  Almighty  hath  scourged 
me  through  my  own  son ;  for  he  who  has  just  gone 
forth  is  none  other  than  mine  own  child.  My  heart 
went  out  to  him  since  first  I  saw  his  face,  though  I 


236  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

knew  not  till  to-day  that  he  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 
The  picture  you  saw  him  hold  out  before  me  is  none 
other  than  the  picture  of  his  mother's  face. 

"  I  speak  it  not  for  my  defense — but  I  thought  his 
mother  was  dead.  I  was  told  from  the  old  country 
that  she  was  gone,  and  more  than  one  letter  was  re- 
turned to  me  with  the  statement  that  she  could  not 
be  found.  It  was  my  heart's  purpose  to  make  a 
worthy  home  for  her  here  in  Canada,  and  to  bring 
her  out  to  it  and  to  atone  if  I  might  for  the  cruel 
wrong.  The  first  is  long  since  done,  but  the  second 
was  beyond  my  power — at  least  so  I  was  led  to  think. 

"  And  now,  Moderator,  I  place  in  your  hands  the 
resignation  of  the  office  on  which  I  have  brought  such 
deep  disgrace.  It  was  my  pride  to  be  an  elder  in  St. 
Cuthbert's,  for  it  was  here  I  first  tasted  of  the  Saviour's 
forgiving  grace ;  it  was  here  I  first  learned  the  luxury 
of  penitence,  and  here  was  born  my  heart's  deep 
purpose  to  retrieve  the  past — it  was  my  pride,  I  say 
to  be  an  elder  here,  but  it  is  now  my  shame." 

He  was  about  to  stop  when  Saunders  McTavish 
interrupted : 

"  Moderator,  there'll  be  no  need  to  proceed  by 
libel,  for  the  accused  party  has  confessed  his  guilt. 
But  he  hasna  said  anything  to  the  Court  about  his 
soul,  about  his  soul  and  his  sin,  and  his  relation  to 
his  God.  At  least,  not  all  he  might  like  to  say  and 


A  MAIDEN  PRIESTESS  237 

we  might  like  to  hear.  Mebbe  he'll  have  had  re- 
pentance unto  life  ?  " 

I  waited.  Mr.  Blake's  response  came  with  humble 
brokenness. 

"  Please  God  I  have,"  he  said,  "  and,  unworthy 
though  I  be,  I  have  a  great  word  for  my  fellow  men 
this  day — a  word  the  unfallen  angels  could  not 
speak.  Oh,  my  brethren,  believe  me,  I  have  not 
been  leading  a  double  life.  I  took  the  eldership  at 
your  hands,  I  know,  saying  nothing  of  the  dark  blot 
that  soiled  the  past.  My  humble  hope  was  that  in 
service  I  might  seek  to  redeem  my  life  and  I  remem- 
bered One  who  said  to  a  guilty  soul  like  mine ; — 
'  Feed  My  sheep.'  Penitence,  and  not  remorse,  I 
thought,  was  well  pleasing  unto  God. 

"  And  you  will  bear  me  witness  that  I  have  tried 
to  warn  all,  especially  the  young  men,  against  the 
first  approach  of  sin.  I  fell  long  years  ago  because 
I  cherished  sinful  images  in  my  heart  till  even  love 
went  down  before  them.  Since  then,  God  is  my 
witness,  I  have  made  it  my  lifework  to  drive  them 
forth  and  to  make  every  thought  captive  to  the  Re- 
deeming Christ.  My  lifework  has  not  been  in  my 
foundry,  nor  in  my  town,  nor  in  my  church — but  in 
my  heart,  this  guilty  heart  of  mine.  I  have  striven 
to  drive  out  evil  thoughts — out,  in  the  blessed  name 
of  Jesus.  For  long,  I  could  not  recall  my  sin  with- 


238  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

out  sinning  anew.  But  I  had  a  hope  of  final  victory, 
and  having  this,  I  purified  myself  even  as  He  is 
pure. 

"  It  was  my  daily  prayer  that  God  would  make  me 
useful,  poor  and  all  but  sunken  wreck  as  I  was,  that 
he  would  yet  make  me  a  danger  signal  to  the  young 
about  me — which  I  am  this  day.  For  a  wrecked 
ship  does  not  tell  of  danger — it  swears  to  the  peril 
that  itself  has  known.  And  to  every  young  man 
before  me  I  swear  to  two  things  this  hour.  The  first 
is  that  your  sin  will  find  you  out.  Be  sure  of  this. 
All  our  phrases  about  lanes  that  have  no  turning  and 
the  mills  of  the  gods  and  justice  that  smites  with  iron 
hand,  and  chickens  that  come  home  to  roost — all 
these  are  only  names  for  God's  unsleeping  vigilance, 
all  varied  statements  of  the  relentlessness  of  sin. 

"  The  other  truth  to  which  I  swear  is  this,  that  dark 
and  bitter  memories  of  evil  may  be  a  blessing  to  the 
soul,  if  we  but  count  that  sin  our  deadly  enemy  and 
rest  not  till  we  take  vengeance  of  it.  It  may  yet  be 
God's  messenger  to  us,  if  we  lead  humble  chastened 
lives,  seeking  to  redeem  the  past  and  watching  unto 
prayer.  There  is  no  discipline  so  bitter  and  so 
blessed  as  the  discipline  of  an  almost  ruined  soul. 
For  old  sins  do  not  decay  and  die ;  they  must  be 
nailed  upon  the  cross.  It  is  an  awful  truth  that  he 
who  was  once  filthy  is  filthy  still,  but  it  is  still  more 


A  MAIDEN  PRIES'TESS  239 

true,  thank  God,  that  there  is  One  whose  blood 
cleanseth  from  all  sin." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  in  a  moment  he  was 
gone.  Down  that  same  aisle  by  which  his  child  had 
passed,  he  swiftly  walked,  his  head  bowed,  his  face 
quivering  in  pain  like  one  who  was  being  scourged 
out  of  the  temple.  For  there  are  corded  whips, 
knotted  by  unseen  hands. 

After  the  door  had  closed  behind  him  the  Session 
Clerk  arose : 

"  I  move,  Moderator,"  he  said,  "  that  Mr.  Blake's 
resignation  be  laid  on  the  table." 

Before  his  motion  was  seconded  Roger  Lockie, 
one  of  the  stalwarts,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
congregation. 

"  It's  no  becomin'  in  me  to  interfere,"  he  began, 
"  but  we're  a'  assembled  here  as  a  worshippin'  people, 
an'  I  move  that  the  Kirk  Session  be  requested  no'  to 
accept  the  resignation.  Oor  brother  fell,  nae  doot, 
but  it  was  lang  syne,  and  he  has  walked  worthy  o'  the 
Lord  unto  a'  pleasin'  since,  an'  borne  a  guid  witness 
to  his  Maister.  We  a'  ken  fine  what  the  great  King 
an'  Heid  o'  the  Kirk  wad  dae  wi'  his  resignation. 
Wi'  my  way  o'  thinkin',  a  sinfu'  man  wha  has  been 
saved  by  grace  is  juist  the  ane  to  commend  the  Mais- 
ter's  love.  I  move  the  Session  be  asked  to  keep  him 
as  oor  elder." 


240  ST.   CUTHBER'T'S 

"  I  second  that,"  said  William  Watson,  a  man  of 
fifty  years.  "  He  brocht  me  to  Christ  and  that's  ae 
soul  he  saved.  He  broke  the  alabaster  box  upon  his 
Saviour's  head  this  day  and  we  a'  felt  the  fragrance 
o't.  If  God  Himsel'  canna  despise  the  contrite  hairt, 
nae  mair  can  we." 

I  was  about  to  put  the  motion  when  the  senior 
elder  arose: — "  I  hae  but  a  word,"  he  said,  "an'  it's 
nae  word  o'  mine.  The  spirit  o'  the  cross  is  wi'  us 
and  I  will  read  a  bit  frae  the  Buik : — '  If  a  man  be 
overtaken  in  a  fault  ye  which  are  spiritual  restore 
such  an  one  in  the  spirit  of  meekness,  considering 
thyself  lest  thou  also  be  tempted.' " 

"  Are  you  ready  for  the  question  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Aye,  we're  a'  fine  an'  ready  noo,"  said  one  of  the 
worshippers. 

The  vote  was  taken  and  there  was  no  dissenting 
voice.  Michael  Blake's  long  penance  had  done  its 
work  on  earth  and  its  eternal  outcome  was  in  other 
hands  than  ours. 


XXIV 
The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH 

I  WAS  strongly  inclined  to  accept  the  call.     Not 
that  I  liked  changes,  for  heart  vines  bleed  freely 
when  uptorn,  and  friendship's  stocks  cannot  be 
bought  on  margin.     But  my  heart  was  heavy,  and 
St.  Cuthbert's  had  been  sorely  wounded.     Therefore, 
when  the  South  Carolina  church  opened  correspond- 
ence with  me  regarding  their  vacant  pulpit,  I  lent  an 
attentive  ear. 

All  who  have  known  sorrow  in  their  work  know 
how  sweet  sounds  the  voice,  even  the  siren  voice, 
which  calls  to  distant  scenes  of  toil.  The  world's 
weary  heart  will  some  day  learn  that  no  far-leading 
path,  no  journey  by  land  or  sea  can  separate  us 
from  the  sorrow  we  seek  to  flee ;  because  no  path 
hath  been  discovered,  no  route  devised,  which  shall 
lead  us  forth  from  our  own  hearts,  where  sorrow  hath 
her  lair. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  strongly  minded  to  go  forth 
from  the  work  which  had  become  my  very  life.  It 
is  nature's  favourite  paradox  that  what  we  love  the 
most,  the  most  hath  power  to  give  us  pain.  Could 
we  withhold  our  love,  no  hand  could  wound  us 

241 


242  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

sorely,  for  it  takes  a  friend  to  make  an  enemy  worth 
the  name.  And  since  I  loved  St.  Cuthbert's  with 
that  love  which  only  sacrifice  can  know,  I  was 
oppressed  with  a  corresponding  fear  that  her  frown 
would  quench  whatever  glimmer  of  gladness  still 
flickered  in  my  heart.  For  I  had  almost  forgotten 
that  ever  I  was  glad.  And  is  it  to  be  wondered  at? 

My  daughter's  love  was  fixed  upon  a  man  whom  I 
deemed  impossible,  though  by  no  fault  of  his.  She 
had  renounced  all  purpose  of  their  immediate  union 
in  deference  to  her  father's  protest,  but  her  love  was 
fixed  upon  him  still,  and  her  father  felt  like  one  who 
was  beating  back  the  spring.  Her  mother  was  torn 
with  the  torment  of  an  armed  neutrality.  Further, 
my  beautiful  church  had  been  scarred  by  the  explos- 
ive riot  of  that  ordination  day,  stricken  with  a  soul's 
lightning ;  and  the  whole  tragedy  of  our  home  life 
had  been  laid  bare  to  every  eye. 

Margaret,  and  her  love,  and  her  lover,  and  her 
lover's  genealogy,  and  her  father's  forbiddal  of  their 
marriage,  all  these  were  daily  herbs  to  those  who 
loved  us,  daily  bread  to  native  gossip-mongers,  and 
daily  luxury  to  all  who  wished  us  ill.  My  attitude 
towards  Margaret's  lover,  and  whether  that  attitude 
was  right  or  wrong,  was  the  especial  subject  of  de- 
bate and  all  New  Jedboro  abandoned  itself  to  a  car- 
nival of  judgment.  Even  the  most  pious  and  in- 


The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     243 

dulgent  could  not  forego  the  solemn  luxury,  and 
those  who  denied  themselves  all  of  scandal's  tooth- 
some tidbits  could  not  renounce  this  great  repast. 

I  entertained  no  actual  misgivings  as  to  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  permanent  loyalty  to  me;  but  our  self-con- 
sciousness had  become  raw  and  sore,  our  manse  had 
turned  suddenly  to  a  house  of  glass,  and  the  whole 
situation  was  so  fraught  with  embarrassment  that  no 
mere  man  since  the  fall  could  have  been  free  from  an 
instinctive  longing  to  escape. 

St.  Andrew's,  Charleston,  an  ancient  church  of  that 
ancient  city,  had  offered  me  its  pulpit.  The  South- 
erners have  a  taste  for  British  blood,  and  they  stand 
alone  as  connoisseurs  of  that  commodity.  Where- 
fore, the  St.  Andrew's  folk  had  cast  about  for  a  Brit- 
ish minister,  preferring  the  second  growth,  hopeful 
that  its  advantage  of  American  shade  might  have 
made  its  excellence  complete. 

Their  committee  ranged  all  Canada,  finally  dis- 
mounting beneath  the  stately  steeple  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's,  their  lasso  loosed  for  action.  Or,  to  change 
the  metaphor,  they  informed  their  church  at  home 
that  their  eyes  were  fastened  on  their  game  at  last ; 
for  the  duty  of  such  a  committee  is  to  tree  their  bird, 
then  hold  him  transfixed  by  various  well-known 
sounds  till  the  congregation  shall  bring  him  down  by 
well  directed  aim,  bag  him,  and  bear  him  off. 


244  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

The  Charleston  Committee  was  composed  of  four, 
who  attended  St.  Cuthbert's  both  morning  and  even- 
ing, when  they  came  one  Sabbath  day  to  spy  out  the 
land. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Imperial  Hotel,  himself 
an  extinct  Presbyterian,  told  me  afterwards  that  they 
arrived  late  at  night,  begged  to  be  excused  from 
registering  and  went  immediately  to  their  rooms. 
But  he  knew  in  the  morning  that  they  were  not  to 
the  manner  born — for  they  asked  for  "  oatmeal "  for 
breakfast,  which  is  called  porridge  by  all  who  boast 
even  a  tincture  of  that  blood  it  hath  so  long  enriched. 

Then  they  ate  it  with  outward  signs  of  enjoyment, 
which  also  flies  in  the  face  of  all  Scottish  principle. 
Besides  all  this,  they  gave  the  maid  a  quarter,  which 
was  the  most  conclusive  evidence  of  all. 

They  walked  to  St.  Cuthbert's  in  four  different  de- 
tachments and  sat  in  separate  sections  of  the  church. 
But  they  were  not  unnoticed ;  every  Scotch  section 
marked  its  man,  for  in  New  Jedboro  strangers  were 
events.  I  myself  remarked  three  of  them ;  devout 
they  seemed  and  yet  vigilant — as  was  natural,  for 
they  had  come  to  both  watch  and  pray. 

The  psalms  were  too  much  for  them ;  they  seemed 
to  enter  heartily  into  the  other  portions  of  the  service 
— but  the  psalms  in  metre  are  a  great  Shibboleth.  My 
beadle,  who  always  sat  where  he  could  command  the 


The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     245 

congregation,  has  often  assured  me  that  when  a 
psalm  was  announced  he  could  soon  tell  the  sheep 
from  the  goats. 

The  service  passed  without  special  incident;  for, 
although  I  suspected  their  errand,  all  thought  of  it 
vanished  when  I  came  to  preach.  God's  jealous  care 
will  hold  to  undivided  loyalty  the  heart  that  seeks  to 
serve  Him. 

Monday  morning  brought  the  deputation  to  close 
range.  They  interviewed  me  in  my  study,  and  the 
house  was  redolent  of  Southern  courtesy  and  grace. 
Their  accent  had  a  foreign  tang  but  their  hearts'  tone 
was  that  of  universal  love.  This  latter  word  is  not 
too  strong  to  use,  for  the  Southerner  has  a  rare 
genius  for  laying  claim  to  your  very  heart  by  the 
surrender  of  his  own.  Affection  blooms  fast  in  the 
Southern  soul,  but  our  Northern  bud  needs  time. 
Especially  tardy  is  its  ripening  in  Scottish  hearts,  but 
the  fruit  is  to  Eternity. 

The  conversation  was  one  of  great  interest  and 
pleasure  to  myself,  and  while  I  could  give  no  definite 
promise  I  made  no  secret  of  the  attractiveness  of  their 
proposal. 

"  You  will  be  so  good  as  to  present  our  regards  to 
the  mistress  of  the  manse,"  said  one  of  them,  as  they 
rose  to  go, 

"  Thank   you,  it   will   give  me   great  pleasure,"  I 


246  ST.   CUTHBERTS 

responded ;  "  my  wife  is  a  Southerner.  Her  father, 
who  is  not  living  now,  fought  at  Gettysburg.  My 
wife's  standing  instruction  is  to  say  that  he  was  not 
killed  in  battle,  for  that  was  many  years  ago,  and  she 
has  the  Southern  instinct  for  youth." 

"  And  the  Southern  talent  for  it  too,  I  reckon,"  the 
courtly  gentleman  replied.  "  We  are  mighty  glad 
to  hear  that  she  belongs  to  us.  Surely  we  will  have 
a  friend  at  Court.  Let  her  be  considered  our  pleni- 
potentiary-extraordinary. Does  her  heart  still  turn 
towards  her  Southern  home  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  it  does,"  I  made  reply, "  but  it  has 
been  long  garrisoned  within  these  rock-bound  walls, 
and  I  know  she  has  come  to  love  them.  I  have  often 
heard  her  say  that  there  is  no  trellis  for  Southern 
vines  like  these  mountainous  hearts,  true  and  faithful 
as  the  eternal  hills  themselves." 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  another  of  the  deputation 
interposed.  "  From  what  I  have  seen  and  learned  of 
these  folk,  I  think  they  are  our  nearest  kin.  The 
Scotch  and  the  Southern  nature  are  alike,  the  same 
intensity  of  feeling,  but  with  them  it  glows  and 
burns,  while  with  us  it  flames  and  sparkles." 

"  The  same  stream,"  suggested  the  first,  "  but  ours 
breaks  easier  into  flood." 

"  Well,  I  hope  the  flood  will  bear  her  back  to  her 
native  shore,"  said  the  youngest  member  of  the  com- 


The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     247 

mittee,  who  was  a  colonel,  having  been  born  during 
the  Civil  War. 

We  all  laughed  pleasantly  at  our  racial  distinctions 
and  the  gentlemen  withdrew. 

"  We  will  not  tell  you  good-bye,  for  we  hope  to 
see  you  soon  again,"  was  the  last  word  I  heard,  the 
Southern  idiom  and  the  Southern  cordiality  both  in 
evidence. 

Definite  action  on  the  part  of  the  Charleston 
church  soon  followed  the  return  of  their  representa- 
tives. And  I  knew  not  what  to  do. 

In  the  hope  of  relieving  my  perplexity,  I  accepted 
an  invitation  to  spend  a  Sabbath  with  the  St.  An* 
drew's  people  and  occupy  their  proffered  pulpit. 

My  heart  had  sore  misgivings  when  I  said  good- 
bye to  Issie  Hogg  ;  her  years  were  but  thirteen  ;  and 
every  year  had  bound  her  closer  and  closer  to  my 
heart  till  I  knew  she  was  more  dear  to  me  than  any 
other  child  save  one.  The  sands  of  life  were  nearly 
run  and  I  feared  greatly  lest  they  might  be  spent  be- 
fore I  should  return. 

New  Jedboro  was  winter-wrapped  when  I  left  it, 
and,  taking  steamer  from  New  York,  I  disembarked 
at  Charleston  into  almost  intoxicating  sweetness. 
Their  dear  South  land  was  aflame  with  early  summer, 
and  my  idea  of  Paradise  was  revised.  How  could 
these  Southern  hearts  be  otherwise  than  warm  and  fra- 


248  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

grant!  All  the  land  about  seemed  like  nature's  temple, 
breathing  forth  its  silent  anthem  and  celebrating 
its  perpetual  mass. 

Yet  all  its  vernal  beauty  seemed  but  as  a  portal  to 
the  inner  shrine,  the  sanctuary  of  Southern  hospi- 
tality. Which  hospitality  is  a  separate  brand  and 
hath  no  rival  this  side  the  Gates  of  Pearl.  Let  all 
who  would  feel  the  surprise  of  heaven's  welcome 
forego  the  luxury  of  a  visit  to  a  Southern  home ;  for 
they  have  stolen  that  celestial  fire  to  kindle  their 
waiting  hearths. 

I  was  committed  to  the  care  of  one  of  the  families 
of  St.  Andrew's  whose  household  numbered  five;  and 
every  heart  had  many  doors  all  open  wide.  That  is, 
open  wide  till  you  had  entered,  for  then  they  seemed 
tight  closed,  locked  with  a  golden  key.  Ancient 
pride  seemed  to  be  their  family  possession,  never 
flaunted,  but  suppressed  rather — and  you  knew  it 
only  because  your  own  heart  acknowledged  that  this 
must  be  its  rightful  dwelling  place. 

I  noted  again  the  pleasing  custom  of  Southern 
ladies,  who  shake  hands  on  introduction,  and  forever 
after.  The  candid  graciousness  that  marks  the  act 
is  in  happy  contrast  to  the  self-conscious  agitation 
of  the  underbred  and  the  torpid  panic  of  their  stifled 
bow. 

My  host  and  hostess  were  persons  of  rare  interest 


The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     249 

Some  of  England's  best  blood  was  in  their  veins ;  it 
had  come  to  them  by  way  of  Virginia,  in  their  eyes  the 
last  medium  of  refinement.  The  final  touch  of  san- 
guinary indigo  is  given  only  at  Virginia's  hands,  the 
Virginian  aristocracy  being  a  blessed  union  of  the 
English  chivalric  and  the  American  intrinsic,  the 
heraldic  of  the  old  world  blended  with  the  romantic 
of  the  new — which  might  make  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire proud  to  receive  reordination  at  their  hands. 

English  aristocracy  ambles  on  in  an  inevitable  path, 
high  banked  by  centuries — but  the  Virginian  hath 
leaped  the  hurdle  of  the  ocean  and  still  retained  its 
coronet ;  which  proves  that  it  was  fashioned  in  eter- 
nity after  the  express  pattern  of  their  patrician  heads. 

As  I  describe  the  lofty  source  of  this  gracious 
Southern  household,  I  bethink  myself  that  to  this 
day  I  cannot  tell  how  I  came  to  know  that  theirs  was 
an  ancient  family.  No  reference  to  it  from  their  own 
lips  can  I  recall ;  certainly  no  boast,  except  the  tran- 
quil boast  of  proud  serenity  and  noble  bearing,  and 
the  noblesse  oblige  of  loving  hearts. 

Grave  courtesy  and  sweet  simplicity  and  mirthful 
dignity  seemed  to  be  the  heirlooms  which  they  shared 
as  common  heritors ;  and,  chiefest  of  credentials, 
when  they  stood  in  the  library  amid  the  shades  of 
ancestors  preserved  in  oils,  I  felt  no  sense  of  humour 
in  the  situation. 


250  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

This  is  a  great  tribute ;  for  the  plebeian  may  boast 
his  ancestors  but  he  dare  not  paint  them;  and  many  a 
pioneer  aristocrat  hath  compassed  his  undoing  be- 
cause he  thus  tried  to  put  new  wine  into  old  bottles. 
Wishing  to  found  a  family,  he  proceeds  to  find  one, 
and  both  are  covered  with  shame  as  with  a  garment. 

Many  of  our  new  world  nobility,  finding  in  sudden 
wealth  the  necessity  for  sudden  pedigree,  have  res- 
urrected their  ancestors  and  tried  in  vain  to  touch 
them  into  gentleness,  committing  to  an  artist  the 
secret  task  of  God.  Even  those  who  have  made 
fortune  in  oils,  consistently  restoring  their  innocent 
forefathers  by  the  same,  have  only  advertised  their 
weakness  with  their  wares. 

It  is  true  that  the  Vardell  family  coat-of-arms 
was  not  concealed — but  it  was  not  brandished  or  ex- 
pounded. In  quiet  but  vigilant  emblazonry,  it 
seemed  to  stand  apart,  like  some  far  back  member  of 
the  family  in  whose  pride  it  shared. 

Which  reminded  me,  by  contrast,  of  a  call  I  had 
once  made  upon  a  certain  Northern  family,  con- 
spicuously rich  and  conspicuously  new.  While  wait- 
ing in  the  drawing-room,  I  observed  four  different 
crests,  or  coats-of-arms,  framed  and  hanging  in  a 
separate  place,  smirking  to  one  another  in  token  of 
their  youthful  fortune ;  for  the  lines  had  fallen  unto 
them  in  pleasant  places- 


The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     251 

Soon  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  swept  into  the 
room,  her  locomotion  accompanied  by  a  wealthy 
sound,  silk  skirts  calling  unto  silk  skirts  as  deep 
calleth  unto  deep.  A  little  pleasant  conversation  en- 
sued, which,  among  other  things  informed  me  that 
the  Turkish  rug  beneath  me  had  cost  six  hundred 
dollars ;  whereupon  I  anxiously  lifted  my  unworthy 
feet,  my  emotion  rising  with  them.  After  both  had 
subsided,  I  sought  to  stir  the  sacred  pool  of  memory, 
pointing  reverently  to  one  of  the  aforesaid  emblems 
of  heraldry. 

"  That  is  your  family  coat-of-arms,  Mrs.  Brown,  is 
it  not  ?  "  I  asked,  throwing  wide  the  door  for  the  re- 
turn of  the  noble  dead. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  proudly,  "  that  is  my  one, 
and  that  one  there  is  Mr.  Brown's,  and  those  other 
two  are  the  children's ;  the  yellow  one  is  Victoria's 
and  the  red  one  is  Louisa  Alexandra's.  Mr.  Brown 
bought  them  in  New  York,  and  we  thought  when  we 
were  getting  them  we  might  just  as  well  get  one 
apiece  for  the  children  too." 

How  rich  and  reckless,  I  reflected,  is  the  spend- 
thrift generosity  of  our  new  world  rich  ! 

I  could  not  but  recall  how  those  mean  old  English 
families  make  one  such  emblem  do  for  centuries,  and 
the  children  have  to  be  content  with  its  rusty  sym- 
bols. But  this  lavish  enterprise  cheered  me  by  its 


252  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

refreshing  contrast ;  for  every  one  was  new,  and  each 
child  had  one  for  its  very  own. 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  the  succeeding  Sab- 
bath. St.  Andrew's  church  bore  everywhere  the 
evidences  of  wealth  and  refinement.  Large  and  sym- 
pathetic congregations  were  before  me,  evidently 
hospitable  to  the  truth ;  for  Huguenot  and  Scotch- 
Irish  blood  does  not  lose  its  ruling  passion,  and  South 
Carolina  has  its  generous  portion  of  them  both. 

I  sorely  missed  the  psalms,  without  which,  to  those 
who  have  acquired  the  stern  relish,  a  service  lacks  its 
greatest  tonic.  But  my  poor  efforts  seemed  well  re- 
ceived and  the  flood  of  Southern  fervour  burst  forth 
later  on,  as  we  sat  around  the  Vardells'  dinner  table. 

I  was  being  initiated  into  the  mystic  sweets  of 
"  syllabub,"  a  Southern  concoction  of  which  my 
sober  Scotch  folks  had  never  heard.  Whoso  takes  it 
may  not  look  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red,  for  its 
glow  is  muffled  by  various  other  moral  things ;  but 
the  wine,  waiting  patiently  at  the  bottom,  cometh  at 
last  unto  its  own ;  and  the  glow  which  was  absent 
from  the  cup  may  be  soon  detected  upon  the  face  of 
him  who  took  it,  beguiled  by  the  innocent  foliage 
amidst  which  the  historic  serpent  lurks. 

Webster  defines  it  as  a  dish  of  cream,  flavoured 
with  wine,  and  beaten  to  a  froth.  But  Webster  was 
from  Massachusetts  and  his  advantages  were  few 


The  SWEET:  SUNNY  SOUTH    253 

The  cultured  Southerner,  more  versed  in  luxury  than 
language,  knoweth  well  that  it  is  a  dish  of  wine,  fla- 
voured with  cream,  and  not  beaten  at  all  since  the 
foundation  of  the  world. 

Southerners  incline  to  eulogy ;  and  syllabubs  insist 
upon  it.  Wherefore,  after  the  third  syllabub  had  run 
the  same  course  that  its  fathers  had  run,  Miss  Sadie 
turned  to  me  and  said: 

"  That  was  a  perfectly  lovely  sermon  you  preached 
to  us  this  morning." 

"  You  are  very  frank,"  quoth  I,  for  I  was  unaccus- 
tomed to  compliments,  one  every  six  or  seven  years, 
and  an  extra  thrown  in  at  death,  being  the  limit  of 
Scotch  enthusiasm. 

"  Well,"  replied  Miss  Sadie,  "  I  hope  I  am.  I 
think  it  is  sweet  and  lovely  to  tell  people  if  you  like 
them.  What's  the  use  of  waiting  till  they're  dead, 
before  you  say  nice  things  about  your  friends  ?  If 
folks  love  me,  or  think  me  nice,  I  want  them  to  tell 
me  so  while  I'm  alive." 

"  I  love  you  and  I  think  you  are  sweet  and  beauti- 
ful," said  I,  obedient. 

Then  came  a  dainty  Southern  cry — not  the  bold 
squeal  of  other  girls,  nor  the  loud  honking  of  those 
who  mourn  for  girlhood  gone — but  the  woman-note 
which  only  the  Southern  girl  commands  in  its  per- 
fection. 


254  ST.    CUTHBERTS 

"  Father !  Do  you  hear  what  that  preacher  said 
to  me  just  now?"  she  cried  archly.  "Isn't  it  per- 
fectly dreadful  for  him  to  say  things  like  that  to  a 
simple  maiden  like  me  ?  You  awful  man  !  " 

"  Our  guest  is  only  flesh  and  blood,  Sadie,"  an- 
swered the  courtly  father  when  his  laughing  ceased, 
"  so  I  presume,  like  the  rest  of  us,  he  thinks  you 
lovely.  As  for  his  telling  you  so,  he  was  only 
carrying  out  your  own  instructions." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  done  anything 
else,"  laughed  Mrs.  Vardell.  "  You  shut  him  up  to 
it,  you  know,  Sadie.  After  your  precept,  to  have 
said  nothing  nice  would  have  meant  that  there  was 
nothing  nice  to  say." 

"  But  seriously,"  resumed  Miss  Sadie,  turning 
again  to  me,  "  that  was  really  a  lovely  sermon  this 
morning.  It  is  beautiful  to  be  able  to  help  a  whole 
congregation  like  that." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Miss  Vardell,  Sadie's  sweet 
senior,  "  it  was  perfectly  fascinating.  I  shall  never 
forget  it  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  I  really  think  you  will  have  to  let  us  speak  our 
mind,"  added  their  mother.  "  Your  Geneva  gown 
was  so  becoming ;  I  do  so  wish  our  Southern  minis- 
ters would  adopt  it.  And  the  sermon  was  perfect.  I 
especially  admired  the  way  it  seemed  to  grow  out  of 


rhe  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     255 

the  text ;  they  seemed  to  grow  together  like  a  vine 
twining  around  a  tree." 

I  endured  this  tender  pelting  with  the  best  grace 
I  could  command,  though  this  was  the  first  time  I 
had  ever  been  the  centre  of  such  a  hosannah  thun- 
der-storm. The  tribute  to  the  kinship  of  text  and 
sermon,  however,  was  really  very  pleasing  to  me. 
Just  at  this  juncture,  when  a  new  batch  of  compli- 
ments was  about  to  be  produced,  smoking  hot,  an 
aged  aunt,  the  prisoner  of  years,  ventured  an  enquiry. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  been  there — but  I  am  far 
past  that,"  she  said.  "  What  was  the  text,  Sadie  ?  " 

Sadie  flew  into  the  chamber  of  her  memory  to 
catch  it  before  it  should  escape.  But  the  sudden  in- 
vasion had  evidently  alarmed  it,  for  it  had  gone. 
She  silently  pursued  it  into  space,  but  returned  empty- 
handed. 

"  That's  strange,"  she  faltered ;  "  it  was  a  lovely 
text,"  she  added,  by  way  of  consolation.  "  But  it's 
gone;  I  was  so  taken  up  with  the  sermon  that  I 
must  have  failed  to  remember  the  text,"  she  con- 
cluded, false  to  her  first  love,  but  faithful  to  her 
guest. 

"  Well,  Josie,"  said  the  still  unenlightened  aunt, 
"  I  will  have  to  look  to  you.  You  will  tell  me  what 
it  was." 


256  ST.   CUTHBERTS 

Josie  joined  in  the  chase,  but  their  prey  had  had  a 
noble  start  and  was  now  far  beyond  them. 

"  It  was  in  the  New  Testament,  I  think,"  said 
Josie,  pleased  with  this  pledge  of  accuracy,  and  satis- 
fied that  she  had  outrun  her  sister — "  and  it  was 
tolerably  long."  This  was  said  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  almost  identified  it  and  might  justly  leave 
the  rest  to  the  imagination.  "  I  reckon  I  could  find 
it  if  I  had  a  Bible,"  she  added  hopefully. 

No  Bible  was  produced,  for  that  would  have  been 
taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  fugitive ;  but  the 
eulogists  began  their  mental  search  in  unison,  quot- 
ing various  fragments  of  my  morning  prayer  at  family 
worship,  which  they  carefully  retained  as  witnesses. 
After  they  had  ransacked  every  mental  corridor  in 
vain  they  acknowledged  the  fruitlessness  of  the  quest, 
and  I  myself  told  their  aged  relative  the  text. 

"  Of  course,"  they  cried  together,  each  repeating 
portions  of  it  again  and  again  in  the  spirit  of  atone- 
ment. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Vardell,  "  that  the  mind 
undergoes  a  kind  of  relaxation  after  a  delicious  ten- 
sion such  as  we  experienced  to-day." 

I  marvelled  greatly  at  this  relentless  sweetness. 

"  I  knew  it  was  in  the  New  Testament,"  said  Josie 
triumphantly — and  we  silently  accorded  her  the 
praise  that  was  her  due. 


The  SWEET  SUNNY  SOUTH     257 

But  I  inwardly  bethought  myself  of  those  silent 
granite  lips  in  the  frozen  North,  unthawed  by  tender 
speeches,  yet  each  one  the  reservoir  of  my  texts  and 
sermons,  as  unforgotten  as  they  were  unsung. 


XXV 

57.   CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL 

MY  reluctant  farewells  had  been  said,  my 
gracious  entertainers  had  grown  dim  upon 
the  wharf;  and  the  Atlantic  was  greeting 
our  ship  with  boisterous  welcome.  For  the  Atlantic 
is  far  travelled  and  loves  to  surprise  those  Southern 
shores  with  the  waves  of  Northern  waters. 

One  by  one  the  passengers  retired  from  the  deck, 
some  with  slow  dignity,  some  with  solemn  haste,  and 
some  with  volcanic  candour. 

I  remained,  sharing  the  scant  survival  of  the  fit, 
and  fell  into  a  reflective  mood,  for  I  love  to  think  to 
music,  none  so  grand  as  the  accompaniment  of  ocean. 
That  mighty  throat  is  attuned  to  the  human ;  its  cry 
of  deep  mysterious  passion,  its  note  of  conflict,  is 
the  epitome  of  the  universal  voice.  It  accorded  well 
with  the  mood  that  possessed  me,  for  that  mood  was 
gray. 

The  prevailing  thought  was  this — that  I  was  going 
back  to  winter.  Grim  relapse  this,  I  mused,  to  go 
forth  from  bud  and  bloom  and  bird,  to  pendant 
icicle  and  drifted  snow.  For  the  blood  soon  warms 
beneath  Southern  skies,  and  a  man  soon  recognizes 

258 


ST.   CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      259 

that  a  garden  was  the  ancestral  home  of  him  and  of 
all  mankind.  Even  the  Eskimo  can  be  traced  to 
Eden. 

Yes,  I  was  going  back  to  winter  in  very  truth, 
without  and  within;  for  there  is  a  sharper  winter 
than  any  whose  story  the  thermometer  records.  The 
winter  of  my  discontent,  and  of  another's  blighted 
heart,  and  of  still  another's  darkened  life,  awaited  me 
beyond  these  turbid  waters  !  My  way  was  dark,  and 
my  path  obscure  before  me.  Chart  and  compass 
were  blurred  and  numb.  To  remain  in  New  Jed- 
boro,  and  to  remove  to  Charleston,  seemed  equally 
distasteful. 

I  had  given  the  Southern  church  no  assurance  of 
my  purpose,  because  purpose  I  had  none.  Yet  the 
stern  necessity  of  choice  was  upon  me,  this  most 
sombre  enfranchisement  of  manhood,  that  we  are 
compelled  to  choose,  willing  or  unwilling.  Saint 
and  sinner,  believer  and  infidel,  are  alike  under  this 
compulsion  in  matters  moral — and  in  all  matters.  We 
speak  of  the  stern  pressure  which  demands  that  men 
shall  make  a  living ;  but  its  dread  feature  is  herein, 
that  our  living  is  a  succession  of  pregnant  choices  on 
which  ow  deepest  livelihood  depends — and  these 
choices  melt  into  destiny,  involving  the  infinite 
itself. 

My  people,  I  ruminated,  could  help  me  to  a  deci- 


260  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

sion  if  they  only  would.  But  I  knew  how  non-com- 
mittal they  would  be ;  for  they,  and  all  their  kind,  are 
inclined  to  assume  no  responsibility  of  another's  soul, 
and  to  surrender  no  fragment  of  their  own. 

New  York  was  reached  at  last,  the  waves  still  toss- 
ing heavily.  When  I  alighted  from  the  train  at 
New  Jedboro,  the  breath  of  winter  greeted  me. 

One  of  my  parishioners,  an  Aberdonian  born,  was 
on  the  lookout.  He  shook  hands,  but  said  nothing  of 
welcome  home.  Yet  his  hand  was  warm,  and  its 
grip  had  a  voice  that  told  me  more  than  even  sweet 
Southern  lips  could  say.  For  its  voice  was  bass — 
which  is  God's. 

"  Issie's  wantin'  ye,"  he  said  calmly.  "  She's  far 
gone  an'  she's  been  askin'  for  ye." 

The  dawn  as  yet  had  hardly  come,  and  seating 
myself  upon  the  box,  I  told  the  cabman  to  drive 
quickly  to  Issie's  home.  As  we  passed  through  the 
still  unstirring  town,  he  said : 

"  He'll  be  sittin'  up  with  him,"  pointing  to  a  dimly- 
lighted  window. 

"  Who'll  be  sitting  up  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.  You  won't  have  heard.  That  is 
Mr.  Strachan's  room.  At  least  I  think  that  is  the 
name.  I  only  came  here  myself  to  work  ten  days 
ago.  A  poor  homeless  woman  landed  here  last 
week  from  Ireland.  One  of  those  immigration 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S  SECOND  CALL      261 

agent  devils  over  there  took  her  last  penny  and  sent 
her  over  to  Canada,  to  starve  for  all  he  cared.  She 
showed  smallpox  after  she  landed  here  and  her  little 
lad  was  with  her.  He  took  it  too.  Well,  she  died 
— but  before  she  died  she  told  her  story.  The  old 
story,  you  know — had  bad  luck,  you  see,  and  the 
fellow  skipped  out  and  left  her.  The  woman  gets 
the  worst  of  it  every  time,  don't  she?  " 

"  She  died !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  And  the  little  one  ? 
Where  is  the  boy  you  spoke  of?" 

"  That's  him ;  that's  what  the  light's  burnin'  for. 
Angus  Strachan,  so  they  say,  paid  all  the  funeral 
expenses,  and  they  wanted  to  send  the  kid  away 
somewheres — some  hospital  for  them  catchin'  dis- 
eases. But  Strachan  acted  queer  about  it.  He 
wouldn't  let  them  touch  it.  And  he  took  it  to  his 
own  room  and  said  he  would  take  care  of  it  himself." 

"  And  did  they  let  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Let  him.  I  just  guess  they  did.  They  couldn't 
help  it.  You  see  he'd  been  in,  monkeyin'  round  the 
smallpox  already — so  they  had  to.  And  he  wrapped 
the  kid  up  in  a  blanket  and  took  it  to  his  room. 
They  say  his  light's  never  been  out  at  night  since." 

"  He  has  not  taken  the  disease  himself,  has  he?" 
I  enquired. 

"  Oh,  no ;  leastwise,  I  never  heard  tell  of  it.  But 
them  was  queer  actions  for  a  young  fellow,  wasn't 


262  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

they  ?  No  accountin'  for  tastes,  as  the  fellow  said ! 
Can  you  understand  it  yourself,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can,"  was  my  reply ;  "  let  us  hurry  on," 
and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  at  Issie's  house. 

Little  Issie  had  long  since  snuggled  down  in  her 
own  separate  place  in  my  heart ;  she  was  indeed  a 
favourite  with  all  who  knew  her — but  I  saw  as  I 
stepped  into  the  room  that  God  loved  her  best  of  all. 
The  white  thin  hands  were  tightly  held,  one  in  her  fath- 
er's, the  other  in  her  mother's,  as  though  they  would 
detain  her ;  but  the  angels  heeded  not  and  went  on 
with  the  preparations  for  her  flight.  These  were 
almost  complete  when  I  arrived;  Issie  alone  knew 
that  they  were  of  God's  providing,  for  the  face  she 
turned  to  me  was  full  of  childish  sweetness,  and  her 
smile  was  touched  with  other  light. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  home,"  she  whispered,  as  I  bent 
low  beside  her.  "  Please  don't  go  away  again  " — and 
as  I  kissed  her  she  was  gone. 

Her  curls  were  gold,  still  gold,  though  she  was 
gone.  As  we  stood  weeping  beside  the  precious 
dust  the  sun  arose,  still  arose,  though  she  was  gone. 
And  his  first  errand  was  to  the  broken  heart.  Swift  to 
the  window  flew  his  first-flung  rays,  like  eager  couriers 
who  hear  the  cry  of  need.  And  entering  in,  unbid- 
den, they  set  God's  brighter  seal  of  love  upon  the 
golden  tresses.  Up  and  down  among  the  glowing 


ST.    CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      263 

strands,  they  wandered,  smiling  at  God's  gain,  smiling 
still,  though  she  was  gone.  Unafraid,  they  caressed 
the  unconscious  locks,  anointing  them  for  their  burial. 
When  I  went  out,  the  winter  seemed  past  and 
gone;  I  knew  then  what  made  these  snowbound 
hearts  so  warm. 

****** 

"  Margaret  has  a  new  sorrow,"  said  my  wife,  soon 
after  my  arrival  home. 

«  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  young  woman  and  her  child  from  Ireland  — " 

"  Yes,"  I  interrupted,  "  I  heard  about  it ;  the  driver 
told  me.  Does  Margaret  seem  to  fret  herself  about 
it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  her  mother,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  it  has  made  it  all  the  harder  for  us :  I  mean 
that  I  fear  that  she  is  more  devoted  to  him  now  than 
ever.  She  read  me  a  letter  Angus  wrote  her  just  be- 
fore he  shut  himself  up  with  the  child." 

"  What  did  it  say  ?  "  I  asked,  with  eagerness. 

"  I  don't  remember  very  clearly :  but  he  said  that 
this  woman  who  died  of  smallpox,  the  child's  mother, 
you  know,  had  opened  all  her  heart  to  him  before  she 
died.  And  he  says  there  never  was  a  gentler  or 
purer-hearted  woman — the  old  story,  of  love,  and 
trust,  and  anguish.  Then  he  said  he  promised  her  to 
care  for  her  boy ;  and  he  said  something  about  his 


264  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

ordination  vows,  said  he  would  try  to  be  true  to 
them,  and  that  this  would  help  him  to  banish  revenge 
and  hatred  from  his  heart." 

"  His  ordination  vows  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  "  what  do 
you  suppose  he  means  ?  Surely  he  is  not  trifling 
with  all  that  unhappy  occurrence  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  There  was  no  trifling  tone 
about  his  letter.  I  asked  Margaret  about  that  very 
thing,  but  she  wouldn't  tell  me,  only  she  said  there 
was  no  elder  in  St.  Cuthbert's  more  ordained  to  God's 
service  than  Angus  is." 

"  Did  she  say  anything  about  their  love  affairs  ?  " 
said  I,  after  a  man's  poor  bungling  fashion. 

"  Not  a  word — but  she  wouldn't  let  me  see  the  let- 
ter," this  with  a  little  womanly  sigh :  for  women, 
like  children,  have  griefs  that  appear  trifling  to  grown 
men,  but  are  very  real  to  them. 

After  a  pause  my  wife  ventured :  "  Don't  you 
think  that  perhaps  we  are  just  a  little  unrelenting 
about  Margaret  and  Angus  ?  " 

«  What?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  she  should  marry  him,  of 
course,  but  it  does  seem  hard,  father — and  it  really 
wasn't  his  fault — and  perhaps  we  will  regret  it  some 
day." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  know  it  is  impossible — think 
of  the  humiliation  of  it,  the  shame  of  it,  I  might  say." 


ST.   CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      265 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  do  admire 
Angus  more  and  more.  He  seems  to  be  trying  to 
staunch  his  sorrow,  only  he  does  it  by  love  and  serv- 
ice. Everybody  is  talking  about  how  useful  and 
unselfish  he  is,  in  the  church,  and  among  the  poor — 
and  everywhere." 

"  I  know  it,"  admitted  I,  "  I  know  it,  and  there  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  always  be  friends — 
but  the  other  is  an  entirely  different  matter.  It  can- 
not be." 

"  Well,"  went  on  my  wife,  "  I  do  not  think  I  want 
to  stay  here ;  I  don't  suppose  the  people  understand 
everything,  but  I  feel  sure  many  of  them  think  we 
are  dealing  harshly  with  Margaret.  And  yet  they 
would  nearly  all  do  the  same.  What  kind  of  a  manse 
have  they  in  Charleston  ?  "  she  concluded  eagerly — 
for  a  woman's  gift  of  transition  is  marvellous. 

Whereupon  I  told  her  all  about  my  Southern  ex- 
periences and  impressions. 

****** 

There  was  no  tumult  in  St.  Cuthbert's.  A  man 
who  knows  nothing  of  the  under-currents  in  the 
heart's  great  ocean  would  have  said  that  my  people 
were  serenely  indifferent  as  to  whether  I  should  stay 
in  New  Jedboro  or  go  to  Charleston.  There  was  no 
open  attempt  to  influence  the  outcome,  for  they  be- 
lieved in  the  sovereignty  of  God  and  would  not  in- 


266  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

terfere — at  least  not  till  that  very  sovereignty  so  con- 
strained them.  Of  course,  they  held  prayer  to  be  a 
legitimate  interference.  This  is  a  great  mystery,  but 
it  is  cherished  by  the  soul  as  persistently  as  it  is  chal- 
lenged by  the  reason.  Mysterious  though  this  union 
must  ever  be,  the  Scottish  spirit  takes  full  advantage 
of  it,  and  enjoys  its  fruit,  let  the  root  be  hidden  as  it 
may. 

"  Ye'll  be  givin'  us  yir  decision  some  o'  these 
days,"  was  about  as  far  as  the  most  emotional  would 
go,  some  even  adding :  "  Charleston's  a  graun  city, 
nae  doot,  an'  I'm  hopin'  ye'll  like  it  fine  if  you  leave 
us,"  which  last  proved  to  me  that  such  an  one  se- 
cretly prayed  for  my  remaining.  The  true  Scotch- 
man is  like  the  Hebrew  language — to  be  understood, 
he  must  be  read  backwards. 

"  It's  a  graun  chance  ye're  gettin',  to  be  called  to 
sic  a  kirk  as  that,"  said  Wattie  Gardner  one  day. 
"  I'm  fearin'  ye'll  rue  it  if  ye  bide  wi'  us  here." 

This  was  far  from  the  language  of  ardent  wooing ; 
yet  I  noticed  that  this  same  Wattie  sought  to  reform 
his  ways,  that  they  might  tend  to  the  increase  of  my 
comfort.  He  had  been  an  incorrigible  sleeper  in  the 
kirk,  surrendering  to  sweet  repose  with  the  announce- 
ment of  the  text,  and  emerging  therefrom  only  to 
join  the  closing  paraphrase  with  unembarrassed  unc- 
tion. For  no  man  was  more  ready  with  a  verdict  on 


Sr.   CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      267 

the  sermon  than  was  Wattie,  as  he  walked  down  the 
aisle ;  he  never  failed  to  demand  the  "  heads  and  par- 
ticulars "  from  his  family  at  the  dinner  table,  resent- 
ing all  imputation  of  somnolence  for  himself. 

His  defense  was  plausible,  since  he  never  slept  ex- 
posed; but  always  with  his  head  bowed  upon  the 
book-board,  esteemed  by  the  uncharitable  as  the  atti- 
tude of  slumber,  but  explained  by  Wattie  as  the 
posture  of  undistracted  thought  and  pious  meditation. 

Shortly  after  my  call  to  Charleston,  however,  Wa't- 
tie  abandoned  this  pious  and  reflective  posture,  sitting 
bolt  upright,  beating  back  his  tendency  to  thoughtful 
retirement  with  the  aid  of  cloves  and  peppermints. 
I  knew  the  meaning  of  this  reform,  for  I  knew  Wat- 
tie's  love  for  me,  clandestine  though  it  was ;  he  and  I 
had  watched  death  together  once — and  after  the  wave 
had  overswept  us,  the  ground  beneath  our  feet  was 
firm  as  rock  forever. 

By  and  by  St.  Cuthbert's  began  to  move.  It  was 
known  that  I  purposed  announcing  my  decision  on 
the  approaching  Sabbath  day,  and  I  was  informed 
that  one  or  two  deputations  wished  to  wait  upon  me 
at  the  manse.  The  first  was  from  the  women  of  the 
church,  who  had  had  a  meeting  of  their  own. 

To  my  amazement  the  spokeswoman  was  Mrs. 
Goodall.  Now  it  must  be  told  that  this  same  Mrs. 
Goodall,  in  all  sincerity  of  conscience,  had  violently 


268  ST.    CUrHBERT'S 

withstood  my  advent  to  the  pastorate  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  years  before.  The  ground  of  her  opposition 
was  that  I  plied  the  festive  pipe. 

Never  was  there  nobler  Christian  womanhood  than 
hers,  never  a  more  devoted  life,  never  a  more  loving 
heart.  But  no  man's  character  could  be  fragrant,  so 
she  thought,  if  it  ripened  amid  the  rich  aroma  of 
tobacco ;  and  good  old  Virginia  leaf  was  to  her  the 
poison-ivy  of  mankind.  That  life  was  indeed  be- 
clouded which  found  shelter  in  the  genial  clouds  of 
the  aforesaid  leaf.  But  with  all  this  heroic  hostility 
to  our  little  weaknesses,  there  dwelt  a  sweet  strain  of 
innocence  in  which  we  had  come  to  glory. 

"  Ye  needn't  tell  me,"  said  the  good  Mrs.  Goodall 
once  to  a  sympathetic  circle,  "  that  they  dinna  play 
poker  at  the  taivern — an'  in  the  daytime  too — for  I 
passed  by  this  verra  day,  an'  they  were  pokin'  away, 
wi'  their  coats  off,  wi'  lang  sticks  in  their  hands, 
pokin'  at  the  wee  white  balls,"  and  her  listeners 
needed  no  other  proof. 

The  dear  old  saint  made  her  plea  for  those  she 
represented,  and  it  greatly  pleased  me,  for  I  loved 
her  well ;  and  I  remembered  the  scores  and  hundreds 
who  had  felt  the  power  of  her  godly  life.  Besides,  it 
confirmed  me  in  this  assurance,  that,  after  all  is  said 
and  done,  if  a  man  is  honestly  trying  to  do  his 
Master's  work,  even  those  most  sternly  set  against  the 


ST.    CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      269 

pipe  will  care  but  little  whether  or  not  he  seeks  the 
comfort  it  undoubtedly  affords.  Which  very  thing 
had  been  proved  by  my  great  predecessor,  Dr.  Grant, 
half  a  century  agone. 

The  second,  and  larger,  deputation  was  composed 
of  ten  or  more,  appointed  to  represent  the  kirk  ses- 
sion and  the  Board.  Of  this  latter  body,  the  princi- 
pal spokesman  was  its  chairman,  William  Collin,  an 
excerpt  from  Selkirkshire  and  one  of  my  chiefest 
friends.  He  was  long,  very  long,  almost  six  feet 
three,  with  copious  hair  that  never  sank  to  rest,  and 
habitually  adorned  with  a  cravat  that  had  caught  the 
same  aspiring  spirit.  This  was  a  rider  perpetually 
attached. 

One  suit  of  clothes  after  another,  as  the  years 
passed  by,  bore  witness  to  the  loyalty  of  his  heart ; 
for  he  would  not  abandon  the  pre-historic  tailor 
who  was  a  sort  of  heirloom  in  the  Collin  family.  In 
consequence,  the  rise  and  fall  of  William's  coat,  in 
its  caudal  parts,  as  he  walked  down  the  aisle  with  the 
plate  on  the  Sabbath  day,  had  become  part  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  ritual — and  we  all  thought  it  beautiful. 
He  was  one  of  the  two,  referred  to  in  the  opening  of 
our  story,  who  had  been  sent  to  spy  out  the  land,  and 
to  report  upon  the  propriety  of  my  conjugal  enterprise. 
The  fluent  panegyric  in  which  his  report  was  made 
is  already  recorded  and  need  not  be  here  repeated. 


270  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

William  had  a  talent  for  friendship  beyond  that  of 
any  man  I  ever  knew,  and  this  talent  flowered  into 
genius  only  after  the  clock  struck  midnight.  Never 
yet  was  there  friend  who  would  stay  with  you  to  the 
last  like  William  Collin,  his  shortcomings  few,  his 
long-stayings  many  and  delicious. 

For  never  yet  was  friend  so  welcome,  never  speech 
more  sane  and  stimulating ;  never  farewell  so  sweetly 
innocent  when  the  clock  struck  two.  May  the  God 
of  friendship  bless  thee,  William  Collin,  for  all  that 
thy  friendship  hath  been  to  me !  And  if  these  lines 
outlive  thee,  let  them  bear  witness  to  that  joy  which 
is  not  denied  to  the  humblest  man,  who  hath  but  a 
fireplace  and  a  friend  and  a  pipe — and  four  feet  on 
the  fender,  while  the  storm  howls  without.  For,  with 
alternate  zeal,  we  cast  the  blocks  upon  the  blaze — 
and  its  flame  never  faltered  till  thou  wert  gone. 

William,  as  chairman,  was  the  first  to  speak.  He 
presented  St.  Cuthbert's  case  with  dignity  and  force, 
beginning  with  the  tidings  that  the  Board  wished  me 
henceforth  to  take  two  months'  holidays  instead  of 
one.  This  started  in  my  mind  a  swift  reflection  upon 
the  native  perversity  of  the  Scotch.  To  prove  that 
they  cannot  do  without  you,  they  banish  you  alto- 
gether for  an  extra  month,  but  William  Collin  gave 
the  thing  a  more  graceful  turn : 


ST.    CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      271 

"  We  love  you  weel  eneuch  to  do  without  you — 
but  no'  for  lang,"  he  said. 

Then  he  concluded,  as  was  his  inviolate  custom, 
with  a  reference  to  Burns,  in  whom  he  had  sat  down 
and  risen  up  for  forty  years  : 

"  I  canna  better  close  what  I  hae  to  say,"  he  as- 
sured me,  "  than  by  the  use  o'  the  plowboy's  words, 
slightly  changed  for  the  occasion : 

" «  Better  lo'ed  ye  canna  be 

Will  ye  no'  abide  at  hame  ? ' " 

With  this  he  reached  behind  him  (this  too,  a  time- 
honoured  custom),  seized  the  aforesaid  caudal  parts 
of  his  coat,  removed  them  from  the  path  of  descend- 
ing danger,  and  lowered  his  stalwart  form  with  easy 
dignity,  his  kindly  eyes  aglow  with  friendship's  light. 

David  Carrick  was  the  next  to  speak.  Cautious 
and  severe,  his  chief  aim  was  to  express  the  hope 
that  I  was  sincere  in  my  indecision. 

"  We  had  a  sair  shock  wi'  a  former  minister  long 
years  ago,"  he  said,  "  he  had  a  call,  like  yirsel',  but  he 
aye  kept  puttin'  us  off,  tellin'  us  he  was  aye  seekin' 
licht  frae  above;  but  Sandy  Rutherford  saw  an 
or'nary  licht  in  the  manse  ae  nicht  after  twal  o'clock. 
He  peekit  in  the  window,  an'  he  saw  the  minister  wi' 
his  coat  off,  packin'  up  the  things.  The  twa  lichts 
kind  o'  muddled  him,  ye  ken." 


272  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

His  colleagues  may  have  thought  David  un- 
necessarily severe.  In  any  case  several  of  them  be- 
gan signalling  to  Geordie  Bickell  to  take  the  floor. 
Geordie  responded  with  much  modesty  and  misgiv- 
ing, for  he  was  the  saintliest  man  amongst  us ;  and  his 
own  estimate  of  himself  was  in  direct  antagonism  to 
our  own. 

"  We  willna  urge  ye,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  winsome 
smile,  "  but  I'm  sure  the  maist  of  us  hae  been 
pleadin'  hard  afore  a  higher  court  than  this.  A'  I 
want  to  tell  ye  is  this — there  hasna  been  wound  or 
bruise  upon  yir  relation  to  yir  people.  An'  there's 
but  ae  hairt  amongst  us,  an'  we're  giein'  ye  an- 
ither  call  this  day — an'  we're  hopin'  it's  the  will  o' 
God." 

The  interview  was  almost  closed,  when  a  voice  was 
heard  from  the  back  of  the  room,  a  very  eager  voice, 
and  charged  with  the  import  of  its  message : 

"  It's  mebbe  no'  worth  mentionin',"  said  Archie 
Blackwood,  a  fiery  Scot  whose  father  had  fought  at 
Balaclava,  "  but  it's  gey  important  for  a'  that.  Gin  ye 
should  gang  to  Charleston  ye'll  hae  to  sing  sma'  on 
their  Fourth  o"  July,  for  that's  their  screechin'  time, 
they  tell  me ;  an'  ye  wudna  hae  a  psalm  frae  year's 
end  to  year's  end  to  wet  yir  burnin'  lips — an'  ye 
wadna  ken  when  it  was  the  Twenty-fourth  o'  May. 
They  tell  me  they  haena  kept  the  Twenty-fourth  o' 


ST.   CUTHBERTS  SECOND  CALL      273 

May  in  Ameriky  since  1776."  Archie  knew  his  duty 
better  than  his  dates. 

I  assured  him  of  the  importance  of  his  warnings, 
and  acknowledged  the  various  deprivations  he  had 
foretold. 

"  Juist  ae  word  afore  we  pairt,"  suddenly  inter- 
jected a  humble  little  elder  who  had  never  been 
known  to  speak  before.  "  It's  in  my  conscience,  an' 
I  want  to  pit  it  oot.  We  a'  ken  fine  we  haena  been 
ower  regular  at  the  prayer  meetin' ;  but  we'll  try  to 
dae  better  in  the  time  to  come.  It's  death-bed  re- 
pentance, I  ken,  but  it's  better  than  nane." 

One  by  one  the  delegates  shook  hands  with  me  and 
withdrew,  after  I  had  promised  them  as  early  a  pro- 
nouncement as  my  still  unsettled  mind  could  hope  to 
give.  After  they  had  gone,  I  sat  long  by  myself, 
pondering  all  that  had  been  said,  looking  for  light  in- 
deed, but  striving  to  quench  all  other  beams  than 
those  whose  radiance  was  from  above. 

While  thus  employed,  a  feeble  footfall  was  heard 
upon  the  steps,  and  a  gentle  knocking  called  me  to 
the  door.  It  was  no  other  than  little  Issie's  grand- 
father who  stood  before  me. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  I  said  cordially,  for  he  was 
dear  to  me,  and  we  had  the  bond  of  a  common  sor- 
row. "  Have  you  forgotten  something  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered, "  but  I  hae  minded  something. 


274  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

I  didna  speak  when  a'  the  ithers  spoke ;  but  I  want 
to  tell  ye  something  by  yirsel'.  I  think  ye  ought  to 
ken.  It  has  to  dae  wi'  yir  decision. 

"Ye  mind  wee  Issie?  Well,  the  mornin'  ye  came 
back  frae  Charleston,  she  was  lyin'  white  an'  still  on  the 
pillow.  She  hadna  spoke  a'  through  the  nicht,  an' 
we  a'  thocht  she  wad  speak  nae  mair — but  at  six 
o'clock  yir  train  blew  afore  it  came  into  the  station. 
An'  wee  Issie  stirred  on  the  pillow.  Her  lips  moved 
an'  I  pit  doon  my  ear. 

" '  He'll  be  on  that  train,'  she  whispered  low. 
'  Wha'll  be  on  the  train  ?  '  I  askit  her.  '  The  minis- 
ter/ was  a'  she  said. 

"  I  was  alane  wi'  her,  an'  I  said :  '  Mebbe  so,  Issie.' 
Then  she  spoke  nae  mair  for  a  little,  but  soon  she 
said :  '  God  '11  bring  him  back  to  open  the  gate  for 
me  before  I  go.  Grandfather,'  she  said, '  he  first  told 
me  of  the  gate  and  he  said  I  would  find  it  beautiful 
when  I  got  close — and  so  it  is — but  I  want  him  to 
push  it  farther  open,  for  I  am  so  weak  and  tired. 
I'm  sure  God  will  bring  him  home  in  time.' " 

My  eyes  were  wet,  and  I  could  only  take  the  old 
man's  hand  in  mine,  the  silent  token  that  the  great- 
est argument  of  all  had  been  kept  until  the  last. 

"  There's  mair  of  us,"  he  said,  as  the  sobs  shook 
his  feeble  frame,  "  there's  mair  of  us  wha's  comin' 
near  the  gate.  I'm  no'  far  frae  it  mysel'.  An'  I 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S  SECOND  CALL      275 

want  ye  to  wait  my  turn ;  I  want  ye  to  bide  wi'  us 
till  ye  see  me  through  the  gate.  A  stranger  wadna 
be  the  same.  I  maun  be  gaun." 

It  is  long  now  since  Issie's  grandfather  followed 
her  through  the  gate.  He  too  found  it  beautiful ;  for 
I  walked  with  him  till  even  I  could  see  its  glory.  It 
swung  wide  open,  for  he  was  welcome  home ;  and  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  splendour  just  beyond.  I 
heard,  too,  rapturous  snatches  of  the  song  they  sing  in 
that  better  land.  It  may  have  been  fancy,  yet  I  am 
sure  I  heard  the  old  precentor's  voice,  and  Issie's  holy 
strain  was  clearer  still ;  but  it  was  the  new  song,  and 
these  two  blended  wondrous  well. 


XXVI 
LOME'S   SINGING   SACRIFICE 

DEATH  is  kinder  than  we  think.  None 
other  knew  the  way  by  which  the  little 
foundling's  mother  had  gone  forth.  But 
death  knew  it  well,  having  often  passed  over  it  be- 
fore ;  and  the  orphan's  cry  was  more  than  he  could 
bear.  So  he  took  him  in  his  kindly  arms  and  bore 
him  on  to  his  mother,  smiling  at  the  cruel  names  by 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  be  called. 

It  is  death's  way  to  take  the  jewel  only,  for  the 
road  is  long;  and  who  will  may  have  the  casket. 
Wherefore  the  affrighted  undertaker  bore  the  latter 
by  night  to  its  resting-place,  for  he  knew  that  path 
and  had  often  trodden  it  before.  But  he  was  not  a 
deep  sea  pilot,  like  the  other. 

Angus  was  left  alone.  A  faithful  man,  himself  a 
smallpox  graduate,  was  his  only  companion.  Strict 
care  was  kept  before  the  door  of  the  now  deserted 
house,  for  panic  hath  its  home  in  the  heart  of  that 
dread  disease,  though  not  so  dreadful  as  we  think. 

Some  of  the  misguided  folk  of  New  Jedboro  fumi- 
gated themselves  at  every  mention  of  Angus'  name, 
sleeping  meantime  side  by  side  with  some  consump- 
276 


LOME'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE    277 

tive  form,  knowing  not  that  death  slept  between  them. 
But  the  great  science  of  life  is,  and  hath  ever  been, 
the  recognition  of  life's  real  enemies. 

Angus  was  alone — and  fallen.  The  foundling's 
plague  was  upon  him,  and  there  was  none  to  care  for 
him  but  the  faithful  servant,  smallpox-proof  as  he 
happily  knew  himself  to  be. 

The  very  night  of  the  poor  waif's  hasty  burial,  a 
note  was  handed  in  at  our  kitchen  door.  It  was 
from  the  health  officer  of  New  Jedboro  : 

"  Can  you  find  a  nurse  for  Mr.  Strachan  ?  "  it  ran. 
"  He  has  no  one  with  him  but  Foster,  who  has  had 
the  disease,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  the  necessity  for 
a  woman's  care.  I  have  tried  the  hospital,  but  no 
nurse  will  volunteer.  Whoever  goes,  of  course,. will 
be  under  quarantine,  as  the  guard  has  orders  to  let  no 
one  enter  or  leave  the  house.  Perhaps  you  may  know 
of  some  poor  woman,  or  some  kind  of  woman,  who 
will  undertake  the  duty.  If  you  do,  I  have  ordered 
the  guard  to  let  her  into  the  house  on  presentation 
of  this  note." 

My  wife  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  study  when  the 
letter  was  handed  to  me.  "  I  will  run  down  to  Mrs. 
Barrie's,"  I  said,  after  long  thinking.  "  She  is  not  so 
much  of  a  nurse,  but  she  is  less  of  a  coward ;  and  I 
know  she  has  taken  care  of  diphtheria." 

"  I  will  walk  down  with  you,"  said  my  wife ;  "  per- 


278  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

haps  a  woman's  influence  won't  be  amiss  on  such  an 
errand." 

We  were  soon  ready  and  went  out  into  the  winter 
night. 

"  Isn't  that  too  bad?"  I  suddenly  exclaimed,  as  we 
were  turning  into  Mrs.  Barrie's  house.  "  I  have  for- 
gotten that  letter — and  the  health  officer  says  that 
whoever  goes  must  have  it.  Shall  we  go  back  for  it  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  she  would  have  retired  before  we  get 
back.  And  in  any  case  she  would  not  go  till  the 
morning,  and  you  can  give  it  to  her  before  that," 
said  my  long  tried  adviser. 

"  Very  well,  let  us  go  in." 

We  had  left  Margaret  at  home.  She  was  often 
absent  from  our  study  fire,  not  in  peevishness,  or 
gloom,  for  they  were  foreign  to  her  nature';  but  still 
she  bore  evidence  of  her  great  renunciation. 

As  I  have  said,  she  was  much  alone,  deeming  it,  I 
doubt  not,  due  to  her  lover  that  she  should  share  his 
solitude,  even  if  separately  borne.  She  sought  to  fill 
up  that  which  was  behind  of  the  sufferings  of  the  man 
she  loved.  This  I  make  no  doubt  was  her  secret  de- 
light ;  for  only  a  woman  knows  the  process  of  that 
joy  which  is  exhaled  when  sorrow  and  love  flow 
mingled  down. 

Margaret  had  not  been  beside  our  study  fire  that 
winter  night.  But  on  our  departure  she  came  down 


LOME'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE     279 

from  her  half  widowed  room  to  sit  beside  it.  It  was 
the  same  hearth  she  had  kindled  in  other  days  "  in 
expectation  of  a  guest."  As  she  entered  the  room,  her 
eye  fell  upon  the  note  which  I  had  left  lying  in  my 
chair.  A  glance  at  it  revealed  to  her  Angus'  name. 
It  was  soon  perused  and  it  needed  to  be  read  but 
once.  Swift  action  followed,  for  there  is  no  such 
thinker  as  the  heart ;  and  if  women  were  on  the  Bench 
to-morrow,  "  Judgment  reserved  "  would  vanish  from 
our  judicial  records. 

Margaret's  decision  was  taken  before  she  laid  the 
letter  down,  and  a  flush  of  eager  joy  glowed  on  her 
face.  In  a  moment  she  was  back  in  her  room, 
quickly  moving  here  and  there,  gathering  this  and 
that  together,  bending  over  a  small  travelling-bag  that 
lay  upon  the  bed.  Her  ruling  thought  was  one  of 
gladness,  even  joy — and  the  traveller's  joy  at  that. 
Who  does  not  know  the  sudden  thrill  of  rapture  when 
there  comes  to  us  a  sudden  summons  to  a  long  and 
unexpected  journey  ? 

And  Margaret  was  starting  on  a  long  journey,  how 
long,  only  God  could  tell.  She  thought  of  this  as  she 
glanced  about  the  pretty  room  that  had  shared  her 
secret  thoughts  since  childhood,  that  had  seen  the 
awaking  of  her  love,  and  had  oftentimes  kept  with 
her  the  vigil  of  unsleeping  joy.  More  than  once  the 
poor  little  room  had  feared  it  was  soon  to  be  out' 


280  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

grown,  and  left  far  behind;  but  still  at  night  Margaret 
would  return  to  its  pure  protection,  and  still  it  knew 
the  fragrance  of  a  virgin's  trembling  love. 

She  was  almost  through  the  door  when  she  turned 
once  again  and  bade  it  a  long  farewell,  the  same  as  a 
maiden  on  her  bridal  morn.  For  she  too  was  on  her 
way  to  an  altar ;  and  the  vows  for  sickness  or  health, 
for  life  or  death,  seemed  to  be  upon  her  now. 

She  had  got  as  far  as  the  garden  gate  when  she 
stopped  suddenly. 

"  I  have  forgotten  the  letter,"  she  said  to  herself. 
Laying  her  travelling-bag  upon  the  ground,  she  ran 
swiftly  back,  but  the  door  had  locked  behind  her,  and 
her  latch-key  was  in  her  room. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  cried  to 
herself.  "  I  cannot  get  in  without  the  letter,  and  they 
will  soon  be  back." 

She  flew  along  the  veranda  to  a  window  and 
pressed  it  upward.  It  yielded,  and  her  joy  flowed 
like  a  river.  Up  she  flung  it,  far  up,  and  with  a 
bound  the  active  form  was  upon  the  sill  and  disap- 
peared into  the  room.  The  letter  lay  where  she  had 
left  it,  and  in  a  moment  the  precious  passport  was 
in  its  hiding-place.  A  moment  later,  the  gate 
swung  shut  behind  her.  Her  bosom  throbbed  with 
a  new  courage  as  it  felt  the  touch  of  the  letter  that 
was  entrusted  to  its  keeping ;  for  this  was  her  war- 


LOME'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE    281 

rant,  her  pledge  of  passage  on  that  long  journey  to- 
wards which  she  pressed  so  eagerly.  Oh,  woman  ! 
who  countest  pestilence  thy  friend  when  it  is  in  league 
with  love  ! 

On  she  pressed,  on  through  the  frosty  night.  The 
snow  made  music  beneath  her  hurrying  feet,  the 
bridge  by  which  she  crossed  the  river  cracked  and 
echoed  with  the  frost,  and  the  Northern  lights  flashed 
the  signals  of  their  heavenly  masonry — for  what  knew 
they  of  plague  and  love  and  sorrow,  and  of  the  story 
of  this  poor  tracing-board  of  time  ? 

But  Margaret  never  thought  of  this,  for  she,  too, 
had  her  own  secret  symbols,  and  her  heart  its  own 
mighty  language,  voiced,  like  the  other's,  in  alternate 
floods  of  light  and  gloom. 

She  never  paused  till  she  was  challenged  by  the 
guard  before  the  plague-struck  house.  Then  she  laid 
down  her  travelling-bag,  for  it  had  grown  heavy ;  but 
her  eyes  never  turned  from  the  dim  light  that  shone 
from  the  window.  Love  and  danger  were  there,  and 
the  fascination  of  both  was  upon  her. 

"  Where  might  you  be  goin',  miss  ? "  said  the 
guard.  His  voice  was  thick,  and  his  breath  bore  a 
perfume  which  proved  he  had  been  hospitably  en- 
treated by  some  sympathetic  friend.  Doubtless  it  was 
the  good  Samaritan's  wine  that  had  failed  of  its  desti- 
nation. 


282  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  I  am  going  into  that  house,  if  you  please,"  replied 
Margaret.  "  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  Mr.  Strachan. 
The  health  officer  has  asked  for  a  nurse." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  lady,"  said  the  guard, "  no  pretty  face 
like  yours  is  going  to  be  marked  by  the  smallpox." 
His  chivalry  was  of  the  moist  kind,  and  his  emotion 
made  him  hiccough  several  times. 

Margaret  winced :  "  I  am  entitled  to  go  in,"  she 
said  boldly,  "  and  I  will  thank  you  to  let  me  pass," 
with  which  she  picked  up  her  valise. 

"  Not  by  no  means,"  the  guard  rejoined.  "  I've  got 
orders  not  to  let  no  one  in  without  a  letter  from  the 
officer." 

"  I  have  the  letter,"  said  Margaret,  for  in  her  ex- 
citement she  had  forgotten  it.  She  produced  it  and 
handed  it  to  the  man.  He  walked  over  to  a  gas 
lamp  across  the  street.  Feeling  the  need  of  exercise, 
he  proceeded  thereto  by  several  different  routes. 
Having  reached  it,  he  was  seized  with  a  great  fear 
lest  the  iron  post  should  fall,  and  lent  himself  to  its 
support.  Then  he  read  the  letter  over  aloud ;  three 
or  four  times  he  read  it,  punctuating  it  throughout 
with  the  aforesaid  tokens  of  emotion.  He  returned 
to  where  she  stood,  selecting  several  new  paths  with 
fine  originality. 

"  I  guess  that's  all  right,  an'  you're  the  party,"  he 
remarked,  "  but  it  ain't  signed." 


LOME'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE    283 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Margaret  in  alarm. 
"  It  certainly  bears  the  health  officer's  name.  I  saw 
it  myself." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that's  all  right,  but  that  ain't  enough — 
business  is  business,  you  see,"  he  added,  with  maudlin 
solemnity.  "  You've  got  to  sign  it  yourself,  kind  of 
receipt  the  bill,  you  see." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  pencil,  produced 
the  rump  thereof,  spread  the  letter  upon  his  knee,  and 
began  writing  on  the  back  of  it.  It  was  like  an 
internal  surgical  operation,  for  his  tongue  protruded 
as  he  wrote,  marking  his  progress  by  a  series  of 
serpentine  writhings  that  suggested  inward  pain. 

"There,  that'll  do,"  he  said,  when  he  emerged. 
"  You  sign  that." 

Margaret  took  the  paper  and  tried  to  read  what  he 
had  written.  But,  unfamiliar  with  hieroglyphics,  his 
handiwork  was  lost  upon  her. 

"  I  cannot  read  it,"  she  said  presently ;  "  the  light  is 
very  bad." 

"  That's  so — besides  it's  too  infernal  cold  to  read — 
I'm  awful  cold.  I  wisht  that  cove  in  there'd  get  a 
move  on  him,  an'  get  better.  He's  got  a  snap. 
Some  one  sent  him  a  bottle  of  milk  to-day,  too,"  he 
concluded,  with  a  solemn  wink,  the  tongue  again  ap- 
pearing on  the  scene  to  bear  internal  witness — "  but 
I  forgot — I'll  read  them  words  to  you  myself,"  which 


284  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

he  proceeded  to  do,  swaying  gently,  for  the  spirit  of 
rhetoric  was  within  him. 

"  This  is  it,"  he  began,  "  '  I'm  the  party  what's 
meant  to  nurse  the  man  what's  got  the  smallpox,  an' 
I  got  in  because  I  wanted  to' — that's  all  right,  ain't 
it  ?  Now  you  sign  that,  an'  if  you  die,  that'll  pro- 
tect me  after  you're  dead.  And  I'll  sign  it  too,  and 
if  I  die,  it'll  protect  you  after  I'm  dead,  see  ?  And  if 
we  both  die,  it'll  protect  the  officer  after  we're  both 
dead,  see  ?  And  if  he  dies,  then  we'll  all  be  protected^ 
because  we'll  all  be  dead,  see  ?  You  keep  the  paper, 
and  I'll  keep  the  pencil,  and  we'll  both  keep  our  job, 
see  ?  Gee  whittaker !  Ain't  it  cold  !  I  wisht  they'd 
send  some  more  milk." 

Impatient  for  a  release,  Margaret  signed  the  docu- 
ment. After  its  author  had  made  another  picturesque 
pilgrimage  to  the  gas  lamp  and  back  again,  the 
signature  was  fervently  commended,  with  signs  of 
increasing  emotion ;  he  returned  the  letter  to  her — 
and  she  passed  on  into  the  house  at  which  none 
but  love  or  death  would  have  asked  for  bed  and 
board. 

There  are  a  thousand  streams  that  flow  from  Cal- 
vary. But  the  deepest  of  these  is  joy.  Wherefore 
as  Margaret  walked  into  the  darkened  house,  her 
heart  thrilled  with  a  sudden  rapture  it  had  never  known 
before.  For  he  was  there — and  she  would  be  beside 


LOME'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE    285 

him  in  a  moment — and  they  would  be  together — 
and  none  could  break  in  upon  them,  for  grim  death 
himself  would  guard  the  door.  He  was  helpless  too, 
dependent  on  weak  arms  that  love  would  gird  with 
might — and  this  makes  a  woman's  happiness  com- 
plete ;  when  love  and  service  wed,  joy  is  their  first- 
born child. 

She  was  now  standing  at  the  door  of  his  room, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  man  she  loved, 
radiant  with  victory. 

He  had  heard  her  footfall  from  the  threshold,  and 
his  heart  clutched  each  one  as  it  fell.  Yes,  it  was 
she,  and  the  music  of  her  rustling  garments  had  the 
sweet  sound  of  rain — for  his  was  the  thirsty  heart. 
It  was  surely  she,  and  not  another, — and  the  whole 
meaning  of  life  seemed  clear  to  him.  He  knew  not 
how  or  why,  but  he  had  been  alone  so  long,  and  his 
hungry  heart  had  wondered,  and  life  seemed  such  a 
wounded  thing. 

But  now  he  actually  saw  those  silken  strands, 
gently  waving  from  her  haste,  and  the  parted  lips 
that  poured  forth  her  soul's  deep  loyalty,  and  the 
dear  form  of  ardent  love — a  maiden's  form.  All 
these  came  upon  him  like  the  dawn,  and  the 
citadel  of  life's  frowning  mystery  was  stormed  at 
last.  How  voluptuous,  after  all,  in  its  holiest  sense, 
is  God's  purpose  for  the  pure  in  heart ! 


286  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

She  stood,  her  eyes  now  suffused  with  tears,  but 
smiling  still;  the  panic  in  her  father's  house,  the 
comment  of  cruel  tongues,  the  fight  with  death,  the 
pestilence  that  walks  in  darkness — these  were  all  for- 
gotten in  the  transport  of  her  soul.  She  had  chosen 
her  Gethsemane  long  ago,  and  this  was  its  harvest 
time. 

Angus'  eyes  drank  deeply  from  the  spring. 

"  Margaret,"  he  said  at  last,  "  how  beautiful  God 
is  ! " — and  Margaret  understood. 

She  advanced  towards  the  bed,  her  hands  out- 
stretched— he  sought  to  bid  her  back. 

"  Margaret,  you  know  not  what  you  do ;  your 
life "  But  it  was  in  vain. 

"  My  life  is  my  love,"  she  cried  with  defiant  pas- 
sion. "  Oh,  Angus,  how  beautiful  God  is ! "  and, 
stooping  down,  she  overpowered  him,  spurning 
death  while  love  should  claim  its  own. 

As  she  stood  above  him  again,  her  lips  were  moist 
with  love's  anointing  and  she  knew  that  nothing 
could  prevail  against  them  now.  Hers  the  promised 
power  that  could  take  up  serpents,  and  drink  deadly 
things,  and  be  unharmed.  Hers  the  commission  to 
lay  hands  on  the  sick  that  they  might  recover.  Her 
sombre  foes  seemed  many ;  shame  clouded  the  name 
she  fain  would  bear,  opposition  frowned  from  the 
faces  of  those  who  bore  her,  and  now  plague  had 


LOYE'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE    287 

joined  the  conspiracy — but  in  all  these  things  she 
was  more  than  conqueror. 

****** 

The  winter  had  retreated  before  the  conquering 
spring,  and  the  vanquished  pestilence  had  also  fled 
when  they  came  forth  again,  these  prisoners  of  love. 
Nearly  four  long  luscious  weeks  had  flown,  and  their 
souls'  bridal  time  was  past.  They  had  baffled  death 
together ;  and  they  came  forth,  each  with  the  great 
experience — each  with  the  unstained  heart. 

Angus  bore  a  scar,  only  one,  as  the  legacy  of  pes- 
tilence— but  it  could  be  clearly  seen,  and  it  was  on 
his  brow. 

"  My  life  seems  doomed  to  these  single  scars,"  he 
had  said,  not  bitterly,  during  one  of  the  sweet  con- 
valescent days. 

"  But  not  through  any  fault  of  yours,  dear  one," 
Margaret  had  answered.  "  I  have  the  same  wounds, 
mark  for  mark,  but  they  are  in  my  heart,"  and  she 
kissed  his  brow,  ordained  to  another  burden. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  said  Margaret.  He  had 
heard  the  words  before,  and  rich  memories  came 
back.  The  freedom  of  the  world  was  theirs;  for 
they  had  been  absolved  from  the  stigma  of  disease, 
and  the  sentinel  had  ceased  from  his  labours. 

"  I  must  go  home  now,"  she  continued, "  for  it  will 
soon  be  dark." 


288  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  I  had  forgotten  about  darkness,"  said  Angus. 
"  Come  with  me.  I  want  to  do  something  for  my 
mother's  sake." 

" '  Your  mother's  sake  ! '  "  she  repeated,  "  did  your 
mother  ever  know  the  poor  woman  who  died  of  the 
disease  ?  or  her  little  child  ?  Did  you  care  for  them 
for  her  sake  ?  " 

"  I  cared  for  them  for  her  sake,"  Angus  answered, 
"  but  my  mother  never  knew  her ;  they  lived  in  dif- 
ferent countries — but  their  sorrows  were  related. 
Let  us  turn  here." 

They  turned  off  into  a  quiet  street,  and  presently 
entered  the  old  stone-cutter's  shop.  Angus  spoke 
to  him  apart  for  a  time ;  finally  the  old  man  said : 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better  write  it  down." 

"  Very  well,  I  will,"  replied  Angus. 

The  old  stone-cutter  adjusted  his  glasses:  "Nothin' 
on  the  big  stone  about  her  age?" 

"  No,  nothing,"  answered  Angus. 

"  Nor  nothin'  about  her  folks?  " 

"  No,  nothing,"  said  Angus  again. 

"  And  nothin'  on  the  little  stone  only  this  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more,"  said  the  other. 

"  All  right,  sir,  I  understand  then.  The  big  stone 
is  just  to  have  'Luke.  7  : 47 :  For  she  loved  much,' 
and  the  little  one :  '  My  brother.'  All  right,  I'll 
set  'em  up  to-morrow,  only  I  kind  o'  thought  it 


LOME'S  SINGING  SACRIFICE    289 

didn't  give  a  terrible  lot  of  information.     But  I  sup- 
pose you  know  the  meanin'  of  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  man  with  the  mark  upon 
his  brow. 


XXVII 
The    HIDDEN   CRUCIFIX 

WE  had  only  one  incurable  sorrow  in  St. 
Cuthbert's  manse.  That  of  course  had 
to  do  with  Margaret  and  her  love — for 
whoso  would  heal  sorrow  must  find  a  cure  for  love. 
We  could  not  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  give  her  up  to 
a  union  so  wounding  to  our  pride  as  her  marriage  to 
Angus  would  have  been.  The  righteous  will  have 
cried  out  long  ago  against  this  unseemly  spirit  on 
the  part  of  a  gospel  minister.  But  my  only  care  is 
to  set  down  things,  myself  among  them,  as  they 
really  were. 

Besides,  it  is  easy  to  prescribe  sacrifices  for  another, 
or  even  for  one's  self,  provided  always  that  they  be 
made  before  the  necessity  arises.  All  parents  are 
models  in  their  treatment  of  each  other's  offspring, 
rivalling,  in  this  regard,  even  those  proverbial  pat- 
terns who  never  took  the  initial  step  to  parentage. 

Our  relations  with  Margaret  were  happy  enough, 
marked  by  love  and  tenderness  as  of  yore.  We 
were  deliberately  cheerful,  and  at  times  even  reso- 
lutely gay.  But  our  house  had  its  skeleton  closet, 

290 


291 

and  each  of  us  kept  a  key.  Apart  from  this,  all  our 
home  was  bright.  Other  wounds  had  healed.  Mar- 
garet was  home  again,  and  she  had  been  kept  from 
the  scourge's  awful  breath.  I  had  accepted  St. 
Cuthbert's  second  call,  and  I  felt  as  though  my  pas- 
torate had  begun  anew ;  for  young  and  old  gathered 
about  me,  and  the  chariot  wheels  rolled  gladly. 

Yet  one  dear  and  long  honoured  face  was  absent ; 
and  one  seat  in  St.  Cuthbert's,  long  occupied  by  a 
familiar  form,  was  vacant  now.  For  Michael  Blake 
had  gone. 

Silently,  without  telling  us  why  or  where,  he  had 
departed,  although  the  heart  of  all  New  Jedboro 
seemed  warm  to  him,  and  although  St.  Cuthbert's 
had  given  him  its  pledge  of  continued  confidence. 
But  he  had  steadfastly  refused  to  resume  the  duties 
of  his  office. 

This  was  almost  a  sorer  wound  to  us  than  the 
other ;  for  we  somehow  could  not  but  construe  it  as 
the  collapse  of  shame.  He  shirks  the  discipline  of 
God,  we  said,  or  thought ;  and  some  even  voiced  the 
darksome  fear  that  he  had  cast  off  the  restraints  of 
his  office,  done  with  religion  when  he  could  no 
longer  wear  its  mask.  He  would  be  a  saint,  said 
some,  or  nothing.  The  role  of  the  publican  has  no 
charm  for  him,  said  others,  because  he  never  really 
knew  its  luxuries.  And  some  were  secretly  angry 


292  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

that  he  had  escaped,  as  they  chose  to  term  it,  for 
they  loved  to  see  the  scarlet  letter  on  another's 
breast. 

****** 

It  was  one  of  the  first  genial  days  of  early  spring, 
and  an  ocean  steamer  was  swiftly  making  for  the 
Mersey.  The  green  fields  of  the  initial  isle  had  been 
declared  the  greenest  of  God's  green  earth,  and  they 
received  the  panegyric  with  national  complacency, 
knowing  not  that  they  had  three  thousand  miles  of 
grassless  ocean  to  thank  for  it  every  bit.  The  fra- 
grance of  the  land  was  sweet  to  the  weary  voyagers, 
and  the  most  taciturn  was  disposed  to  unwonted 
mirth.  The  Captain,  question-driven,  had  taken 
wing  and  soared  aloft,  looking  down  in  safety  from 
the  bridge. 

'But  neither  mirth  nor  gladness  was  upon  the  face 
of  one  traveller,  though  no  face  was  turned  more 
intently  towards  the  shore.  Sadness  of  heart  and 
seriousness  of  purpose  were  there  instead,  not  un- 
mixed with  light ;  for  memory  and  hope,  these  old- 
world  combatants,  had  joined  battle  in  his  soul. 

His  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  still  distant  land,  and 
varying  emotions  played  upon  his  face.  This  very 
shore  enclosed  all  whose  memory  filled  his  life  with 
shame  and  sorrow — within  it,  therefore,  by  God's 
unchanging  law,  must  be  found  their  relief  and  cure. 


rhe  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX          295 

For  the  serpent's  bite,  the  healing  is  the  serpent  still, 
but  lifted  high. 

This  man,  so  silent  and  self-contained,  had  been 
the  centre  of  much  curious  wonder  among  his  fellow 
passengers.  Much  apart  he  had  been,  unmingled 
with  the  ship's  social  life,  despite  all  allurement. 
The  children  called  him  blessed,  for  he  had  entered 
with  their  own  relish  into  all  their  games,  and  when 
these  palled,  he  had  brought  forth  things  new  and  old 
out  of  the  treasure  of  his  mind.  The  aged  and  ail- 
ing were  his  almost  worshippers,  for  he  had  made 
their  wants  his  daily  care. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  part,  Mr.  Blake,  although  we  have 
seen  so  little  of  you  on  the  voyage.  One  has  to  be 
quite  young,  or  quite  sick,  or  quite  old,  to  see  much 
of  you  aboard  ship." 

"  You  have  neither  of  the  last  two  qualifications," 
answered  the  man  addressed,  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

The  voice  which  had  broken  in  upon  his  reverie 
was  that  of  a  lady  past  middle  life,  richly  and  fashion- 
ably dressed ;  for  you  never  know  the  real  plumage 
of  fair  travellers  till  they  are  about  to  leave  you. 
She  was  beautifully  enamelled,  powdered,  massaged, 
and  otherwise  put  in  the  best  possible  repair.  Spark- 
ling diamonds  adorned  her  hands.  A  gold  cross 
hung  upon  her  bosom. 


294  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

"Nor  the  first  one  either,  I  fear,"  she  rejoined; 
"  however,  I  am  trying  to  keep  as  young  as  I  can. 
I  do  wish  we  were  at  Liverpool.  There  is  to  be  a 
bridge  party  at  one  of  my  friends  this  afternoon  and 
a  military  ball  to-night,  and  I  had  counted  on  get- 
ting in  for  both.  I  accepted  from  New  York !  I  am 
not  thinking  so  much  about  the  ball,  but  I  shall  die 
if  I  miss  the  bridge." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  her  companion,  glancing  at  the 
cross. 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  too  cruel.  I  have  picked  up  some 
awfully  good  points  on  bridge — got  them  in  New 
York.  I  got  them  from  my  friend's  clergyman,  the 
Rev.  Dyson  Bartlett,  rector  of  the  Holy  Archangels. 
He  is  a  lovely  man.  You'd  never  think  to  hear  him 
preach  that  there  was  so  much  in  him.  Do  you 
know  of  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Blake,  "  I  don't  think  I  ever 
heard  of  him  before." 

"  Probably  not ;  he  lives  a  very  quiet  life — very 
restful  sort  of  nature,  he  has ;  he  never  gets  up  till 
eleven ;  but  of  course  he  is  always  up  very  late  at 
night.  Can't  burn  the  candle  at  both  ends,  can  you? 
Clergymen  are  only  human,  and  must  get  their  rest. 
But  on  Sunday  mornings  he  gets  up  at  half-past  six 
for  early  mass,  and  of  course  he  plays  on  Saturday 
nights  too,  so  sometimes  he  must  get  very  little 


The  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX        295 

sleep.  Clergymen  don't  have  such  an  easy  life  after 
all.  Are  you  an  Episcopalian,  Mr.  Blake  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  belong  to  that  church." 

"  Isn't  that  too  bad  ?  But  I  don't  know  why  I 
should  say  that  I  think  lots  of  people  go  to  heaven 
who  belong  to  other  churches.  But  then,  of  course, 
I  am  very  broad  in  my  views.  I  can't  bear  narrow 
people — I  just  can't  stand  narrow  people;  and  be- 
sides, I  met  a  lovely  man  once  in  Tarrytown,  and 
he  was  a  Presbyterian.  I  hope  I  will  meet  him  in 
heaven." 

"  I  hope  you  will,"  said  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Yes,"  she  resumed,  "  that  is  what  I  liked  about 
Mr.  Bartlett — he  was  so  broad  in  his  views.  I  re- 
member I  asked  him  once  if  he  thought  dissenters 
would  go  to  heaven,  and  I  shall  never  forget  how 
beautifully  he  spoke.  We  were  having  a  little  game 
at  the  time — only  a  dollar  stake — and  it  was  his  turn 
to  play.  But  when  I  asked  him  that  about  the  dis- 
senters, he  laid  down  his  cards  on  the  table,  and  his 
hands  unconsciously  took  hold  of  the  cross  he  al- 
ways carried  on  his  coat,  and  he  said :  *  God  is  very 
merciful,  Mrs.  Drake ' — then  he  dropped  the  cross, 
and  took  up  the  cards  again,  and  gave  a  little  sigh  be- 
fore he  played,  and  there  was  a  beautiful  smile  on  his 
face — a  kind  of  sad,  sweet  smile." 

"  Did    you    attend    his    church    when    in    New 


296  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

York  ?  "  said  her  listener,  not  knowing  what  else  to 
say. 

"  Yes,  sometimes,  but  you  wouldn't  think  he  had 
such  deep  thoughts,  just  from  hearing  him  preach. 
He  was  very  deep.  One  night  we  were  all  discuss- 
ing whether  it  was  a  sin  to  play  for  stakes.  It  was 
after  the  game  was  over,  and  Mr.  Bartlett  had  won  the 
whole  thing.  He  put  the  money  away  quietly  in  his 
pocket — he  gives  it  to  the  poor  people  in  the  Holy 
Archangels,  he  said,  for  some  of  the  Holy  Arch- 
angels are  quite  poor — he  put  it  quietly  in  his  pocket, 
and  he  took  hold  of  his  cross,  and  he  was  silent  for  a 
little  while.  Then  he  said :  '  Stakes  are  every- 
where in  life — faith  itself  stakes  the  soul,'  and  that 
sad,  sweet,  smile  came  back  again.  Wasn't  that 
deep  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  deep,"  answered  Mr.  Blake,  thinking 
of  the  pocket. 

"  Another  time,  I  remember,  he  said  it  had  often 
occurred  to  him  that  it  was  the  great  Creator  who 
had  caused  bridge  to  be  discovered  ;  he  said  God  gave 
us  bridge  so  that  good  Christians  could  give  up  play- 
ing poker.  Wasn't  that  deep  ?  " 

Mr.  Blake  ventured  some  reply  such  as  courtesy 
and  conscience  could  agree  upon.  "  I  really  never 
gave  the  matter  much  thought,"  he  concluded. 

"  Oh,  dear  !     There  we  are  at  half  speed  again  !     I 


The  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX         297 

know  I'll  be  too  late.  Yes,  even  some  of  his  sermons 
were  very  deep.  He  had  a  beautiful  poetic  mind ; 
and  he  gave  everything  such  a  lovely  turn.  I  shall 
never  forget  his  last  sermon.  It  was  beautiful ;  he 
was  preaching  on  the  text :  '  Wash  me  whiter 
than  snow ' — the  church  was  so  hot,  but  you  could 
just  see  the  snow.  And  his  divisions  were  beauti- 
ful. I  can  tell  them  yet.  His  first  point  was  that  we 
should  all  be  pure  and  white  like  the  snow.  Then 
the  second  one,  he  said,  grew  out  of  the  first,  that  if 
we  were  pure  and  clean  like  the  snow,  we  would  not 
be  impure  or  unclean.  And  the  last  point  was  a 
very  solemn  one.  He  said  that  if  we  were  not  pure 
and  white  like  the  snow,  by  and  by  we  would  go 
down  where  there  was  no  more  snow.  That  was  a 
beautiful  thought,  wasn't  it  ?  I  thought  it  was  such  a 
lovely  ending." 

"  I  never  heard  a  sermon  just  like  that,"  remarked 
Mr.  Blake,  his  mind  reverting  to  St.  Cuthbert's. 

"  Neither  did  I,"  went  on  the  worshipper,  "  and  I 
told  him  so  the  next  night  when  we  met  at  Mrs. 
Bronson's  for  a  little  farewell  game.  He  took  hold 
of  his  cross  again  and  he  said :  '  We  must  deal 
faithfully,  Mrs.  Drake' — and  he  was  just  starting  to 
deal  as  he  spoke.  But  he  never  smiled,  except  that 
sad,  sweet  smile  that  he  always  wore — except  when 
he  lost.  And  he  told  us  that  after  that  service  he 


298  ST.   CUTHBER'T'S 

found  the  curate  weeping  in  the  vestry.  But  the 
curate  fairly  worships  Mr.  Bartlett.  It  was  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  who  first  taught  him  bridge,  I  think.  Do  you 
play  bridge,  Mr.  Blake  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  learned  the  game." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot ;  you're  a  Presbyterian,  you  said. 
It's  pretty  much  a  church  game,  I  fancy.  Excuse 
my  rudeness,  but  why  don't  you  wear  a  cross,  Mr. 
Blake?" 

"  What  ?  "  said  Mr.  Blake  abruptly,  "  why  don't  I 
what?" 

"  Isn't  that  dreadful  ?  The  engines  are  scarcely 
moving ;  I  know  we  won't  get  in  till  five,  and  the 
bridge  begins  at  three.  There  is  nothing  but  dis- 
appointments in  this  world.  Oh,  yes,  why  don't  you 
wear  a  cross?  Not  so  much  for  the  ornament,  of 
course.  I  got  this  one  at  Tiffany's  and  it  cost  me  ten 
pounds.  But,  as  Mr.  Bartlett  said,  the  cross  stands 
for  sacrifice,  so  I  don't  begrudge  it.  I  think,  in  this 
world  of  sin  and  sorrow  every  one  should  wear  a 
cross.  We're  going  a  little  faster  now,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  think  we  are — and  I  do  wear  a 
cross — if  you  have  not  forgotten  your  question." 

"  Oh,  you  do.  I  am  so  glad.  Where  ?  I  suppose 
you've  changed  your  clothes.  But  I  never  noticed  it 
before." 


•The  HIDDEN  CRUCIFIX         299 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  have  seen  it." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  lots   of  men  carry  them  under  their 

vests.     But  I  think  we  should  let  the  world  see  it. 

Do  you  carry  yours  next  your  heart  ?  " 
«  No,  madam,  deeper  still,"  said  Mr.  Blake. 


XXVIII 
The  HE  A  THER  Y  HILLS 

THE  anchor  had  been  cast,  and  the  good  ship, 
panting,  lay  at  rest.  The  bugle  note  had 
followed  the  departing  tender  with  wistful 
strains  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  and  the  emancipated 
passengers  were  pouring  out  upon  old  England's  hos- 
pitable soil.  The  happy  crowd,  catching  already  the 
contagion  of  English  jollity,  swayed  about  the  land- 
ing stage,  then  flowed  in  separate  streams  into  the 
Customs  pen ;  for  this  is  the  first  tug  of  the  tether, 
just  when  all  who  have  escaped  the  sea  think  they 
are  safe  at  last.  Out  through  the  fingers  of  the 
stern  inspectors  flowed  the  crowd  in  still  thinner 
streams,  till  all  this  community  of  the  deep  is  scat- 
tered to  the  winds. 

Swift-hurrying,  they  go  their  separate  ways,  and 
the  happy  little  bubble  has  burst  and  vanished,  as  its 
successors,  now  forming  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
will  burst  and  vanish  too.  What  friendships,  what 
ardent  loves,  what  molten  vows,  ocean  born,  have 
begun  to  languish  on  the  wharf  at  Liverpool,  like 
sunfish  separated  from  their  native  wave ! 
300 


The  HEATHERY  HILLS  301 

Michael  Blake  hailed  a  hansom  and  drove  to  the 
North- Western.  As  he  passed  through  the  turbid 
streets,  dense  loneliness  settled  about  him  like  a  fog. 
This  was  old  England,  this  the  land  which  exiles 
across  the  sea  in  their  fondness  call  the  "  old 
country." 

But  he  could  not  free  himself  from  the  thought 
that,  when  he  left  it,  youth's  sun  was  burning  bright ; 
and  now  more  than  the  early  afternoon  was  gone. 

"  The  evening  too  will  pass,  as  the  afternoon  has 
passed,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  only  more  quickly." 
And  he  glanced  at  the  descending  sun,  God's  meta- 
phor of  warning,  the  recurring  epitome  of  life.  His 
lips  moved  to  speak  a  text,  the  native  instinct  strong 
therefor.  They  had  meant  to  say  "  the  night 
cometh "  ;  but  some  one  interfered  and  he  said  to 
himself:  "The  night  is  far  spent — the  day  is  at 
hand,"  for,  after  all,  the  setting  sun  has  morning  in 
its  heart. 

He  dismissed  the  cab,  and  entering  the  hotel,  made 
some  enquiry  about  the  trains  for  the  North.  He 
could  not  start  North  before  midnight.  The  evening 
was  fine,  and  he  walked  out.  St.  George's  Hall  ar- 
rested him  with  its  elaborate  grandeur.  What 
beauty,  what  chastity,  what  becoming  signs  of  civic 
wealth !  When  he  came  to  its  massive  steps  he  cast 
his  eyes  upon  them,  and  behold,  they  were  dripping 


302  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

with  poverty!  The  victims  of  want  in  mid-careei 
were  there,  and  drooping  age,  unequally  yoked  with 
poverty,  and  frowzy  women  with  ribald  face ;  and 
chief  among  them  all,  little  children,  some  blear- 
eyed,  some  pallid  with  want,  some  with  the  legacy 
of  sores — for  they  had  been  shapen  in  iniquity. 

But  all  alike — and  herein  was  the  anguish  of  it — 
all  alike  were  bent  on  play,  and  persisted  pitifully  in 
the  cruel  farce.  The  little  bare  feet  pattered  up  and 
down  the  steps — but  the  steps  were  stone. 

Michael  Blake  thought  of  his  adopted  home  across 
the  sea  and  its  green  fields  and  tree-graced  meadows. 
Then  he  thought  of  the  far  Western  plains,  vast  be- 
yond human  fancy,  waiting  and  calling  for  the  tired 
feet  of  all  who  spend  weary  lives  in  the  old  land, 
playing  on  stone  steps,  while  wealth  and  grandeur 
smile  above  them.  In  a  few  minutes  he  turned 
away,  for  the  folk  of  his  country  are  not  accustomed 
to  the  sight  of  hungry  children ;  and  a  woman  under 
drink  is  something  that  many  of  their  eldest  have 
never  seen  at  all. 

The  sound  of  martial  music,  and  the  voice  of  cheer- 
ing thousands,  fell  upon  his  ear.  He  moved  towards 
it.  Soon  the  surging  procession  broke  upon  him. 
"  Who  are  these  ? "  he  asked,  "  these  fellows  in 
Khaki  ?  "  They  had  their  rifles  in  their  hands,  and 
some  were  slightly  lame,  and  some  had  the  signs  of 


The  HEATHERY  HILLS  303 

wounds — and  all  had  the  rich  stain  of  battle  on  them. 
"  Art  thou  only  a  stranger  ? "  he  is  asked  in  turn, 
"  and  knowest  not  the  things  that  are  come  to  pass  ? 
These  are  they  who  have  come  out  of  Paardeburg, 
homeward  bound  by  way  of  the  ancestral  home,  and 
the  tide  of  British  love  and  gratitude  wafts  them  on 
their  course." 

He  is  soon  caught  in  the  swelling  throng,  his  own 
head  bare,  his  own  voice  blending  in  the  Imperial 
hosannah.  He  catches  a  familiar  face  among  the 
soldiers ;  he  hears  the  strain  of  the  "  Maple  Leaf " 
mingling  with  the  mighty  bass  of  the  Mother 
Anthem.  He  beholds  the  Union  Jack,  enriched 
with  the  Canadian  emblem.  Gazing  on  the  battered 
few,  he  sees  the  survivors  of  the  battle,  and  he  knows 
that  the  unreturning  feet  rest  in  the  soil  they  have 
won  to  freedom ;  Canadian  lads  were  these  who  have 
insisted  with  dying  lips  that  Britains  never  shall  be 
slaves.  His  adopted  land  has  given  of  its  choicest 
blood  to  swell  the  sacred  tide  that  for  centuries  hath 
laved  the  shores  of  liberty. 

All  this  surges  in  upon  him,  and  the  savage  joy  of 
empire  fills  his  heart.  His  loneliness  has  fled,  and  he 
feels  that  beyond  the  ocean  he  is  at  home,  the  old 
home,  with  its  ever  open  gate  for  its  far-flung  chil- 
dren. The  mighty  roar  becomes  the  gentle  whisper 
of  Britain's  lips,  bidding  him  draw  closer  to  the  im- 


304  ST.    CUTHBER'T'S 

perial  fireside  and  warm  himself  at  its  imperishable 
flame. 

He  follows  them  for  a  time,  then  turns  and  slowly 
wends  his  way  bac}<  to  the  hotel.  As  he  walks  on, 
the  shouting  and  the  tumult  die,  the  banners  gleam 
no  more,  and  he  is  left  alone  with  the  empire  of  his 
heart,  and  with  other  worlds  to  conquer.  We  need 
no  swift-flying  transport  to  bear  us  to  life's  greatest 
battle-fields. 

A  little  waif,  a  boy  of  ten,  pinched  and  ragged, 
was  gazing  in  a  window  as  Mr.  Blake  passed  along. 
A  question  from  the  man,  a  quick  and  pathetic  an- 
swer from  the  boy — and  they  went  in  together.  Then 
the  man  came  out  alone,  and  the  fervent  joy  of  an 
hour  ago  was  gone,  but  a  deeper  gladness  had  taken 
the  room  it  left  behind.  It  is  still  there — a  life-ten- 
ant— for  its  lease  cannot  be  broken  till  memory  dies. 

When  he  re-entered  the  hotel,  the  clerk  recognized 
him  and  said : 

"Your  train  goes  in  an  hour,  sir.  You  are 
going  up  to  Scotland,  I  think  you  said." 

Scotland  !  The  word  inflamed  him ;  and  he  hurried 
to  his  room  to  prepare  for  departure. 

The  guard's  sharp  whistle  sounded,  and  the  train, 
with  British  promptness,  flew  out  of  the  Lime  Street 
station,  one  heart  at  least  strangely  thrilled,  one  face 
steadfastly  set  towards  Scotland's  waiting  hills. 


The  HEATHERY  HILLS  305 

He  was  alone  in  the  compartment,  and  the  long 
night  seemed  only  like  a  watch  thereof.  He  was 
alone,  yet  not  alone — for  Memory  sat  beside  him, 
and  Conscience,  and  Hope.  No,  he  was  not  alone ;  for 
there  wrestled  a  Man  with  him  till  the  breaking  of 
the  day.  And  still  the  train  flew  on,  as  though  it 
knew;  on  it  flew,  as  though  the  unseen  Wrestler 
himself  had  his  hand  upon  the  engine's  throat. 

The  sun  was  rising  when  he  left  the  train.  The 
train  flew  on,  uncaring,  for  trains  know  not  that  they 
are  carriers  unto  destiny. 

Michael  Blake  looked  long  at  the  rising  sun — it 
was  the  same.  Then  his  eyes  caressed  the  surround- 
ing hills,  playfellows  of  bygone  years — they  had  not 
changed.  The  flowers  still  were  there,  the  grass  had 
never  withered ;  the  heather,  too,  in  unfading  purity. 

And  the  trees,  the  old  mighty  elms,  these  were 
still  the  same — the  foliage  of  a  larger  life  they  had, 
but  the  selfsame  branches  held  out  their  kindly  hands 
as  in  the  long  ago.  Still  upturned  were  their  rever- 
ent heads,  still  seeking  God — and  the  baptism  of  the 
morning  was  upon  them,  attested  by  the  morning 
light. 

He  turned  towards  one  of  the  familiar  hills  and  be- 
gan the  old  boyhood  climb. 

Midway,  he  came  to  a  spring,  and  a  great  thirst 
clutched  his  heart.  It  was  life's  long,  quenchless 


306  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

thirst,  crying  out  again  for  the  children's  portion. 
His  face  is  close  to  its  crystal  water,  his  lips  burning 
with  desire.  Another's  face  moves  upward  to  greet 
his  own — but  it  is  not  the  same — and  memory  swiftly 
paints  another  till  he  actually  sees  it,  the  ardent  face 
of  youth.  And  beside  it  is  a  maiden's  face — for  they 
had  often  stooped  together — a  maiden's  face,  laugh- 
ing for  very  love.  But  they  vanish  and  he  sees  again 
his  own,  worn  and  wrinkle-signed — and  alone. 

Yet  the  spring  still  is  there,  unwrinkled  and  un- 
worn, and  his  fevered  lips  drink  deeply.  How  sweet, 
how  delicious,  and  how  wondrous  cool !  It  is  still 
the  same  as  when  rosy  lips  of  love  sipped  from  its 
surface  long  ago.  He  rises  and  turns  from  the  hal- 
lowed spot ;  but  the  flood-gates  of  memory  are  un- 
loosed, and  his  heart  melts  within  him.  The  tears 
are  flowing  fast  and  the  old  luxury,  because  the  old 
innocence,  of  childhood,  seems  to  bathe  his  broken 
heart. 

"  Oh,  God,'  he  cries  aloud,  "  hast  Thou  no  foun- 
tain for  the  soul,  no  living  springs  farther  up  the 
hill?"  and  as  he  cried,  he  glanced  again  into  the 
limpid  spring.  And  lo !  that  gentle  face  was  there 
again,  love's  laughter  still  upon  its  lips,  and  a  great 
hope  looking  out  from  grave  and  tender  eyes. 

Then  farther  up  the  hill  he  climbed,  the  quick  step 
of  boyhood  coming  back — and  soon  he  stood  upon 


The  HEATHERY  HILLS  307 

its  brow.  He  threw  himself  upon  the  grass  and  cast 
his  eyes  over  all  the  unforgotten  valley.  It  was 
slumbering  still,  for  the  sun  is  over  early  in  Scottish 
latitudes,  and  he  quickly  searched  the  hillside  that 
confronted  him.  Behind  a  sheltering  bush  he  lay, 
peering  far  beyond. 

All  the  valley  is  forgotten  now — for,  across  the 
ravine  beneath  him,  he  sees  a  cottage.  The  same, 
the  very  same  it  is,  save  that  the  thatch  has  been  re- 
newed !  A  humble  shepherd's  cottage,  only  a  but 
and  a  ben,  built  long  ago  by  thrifty  hands — but  he 
first  learned  to  worship  there. 

Yet  is  it  still  the  same  ?  He  knows  not — but  he 
knows  the  risk  of  passing  years.  Unchanged  the 
cottage  stands,  and  the  same  gate  hangs  half  open  as 
in  the  far  back  yesterday.  Yet  it  is  the  spirit  alone 
that  giveth  life,  and  of  this  he  may  not  know.  He 
looks  at  his  watch — it  is  near  six  o'clock,  and  he  had 
seen  a  man  walk  sleepily  to  the  byre  from  a  distant 
house.  He  waits  and  watches,  while  a  strange  fever 
burns  his  heart,  unknown  to  youthful  passion.  His 
lips  are  parched,  though  the  water  from  the  spring  is 
scarce  dry  upon  them  yet. 

Still  gazing,  he  sees  no  sign  of  life  about  the  house. 
He  thinks,  yet  knows  not  why,  of  Mary  and  the 
empty  tomb.  Hope  is  sinking  fast,  when  of  a  sud- 
den a  timid  wreath  of  smoke  flows  slowly  from  the 


^o8  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

chimney,  and  Michael  Blake's  hand  reaches  swiftly 
towards  his  heart.  "  Be  still,  be  still,"  he  murmurs, 
"  who  knows  that  it  is  for  thee  ?  "  but  his  eyes  follow 
it  greedily,  for  it  is  to  him  a  soul-signal  from  afar, 
God's  altar  smoke,  and  he  knows  now  that  the  house 
is  not  a  sepulchre. 

"  Now  I  shall  go  and  knock,"  he  said  to  himself; 
but  a  new  thought  possessed  him,  and  he  bowed 
again  behind  the  slender  furze,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  the  house. 

They  were  but  minutes  that  he  waited,  but  they 
came  disguised  as  hours — for  God  can  compel  us  to 
rehearse  eternity.  He  must  have  felt  it  coming,  for 
his  eyes  have  forsaken  all  else,  and  are  fixed  upon  the 
cottage  door.  Yes,  it  moved,  it  surely  moved  ;  and 
the  strong  man's  eyes  are  numb.  They  rally  and 
renew  the  vigil.  Yes,  it  moves,  wider  still — and  the 
flutter  of  a  dress  is  seen.  His  heart  leaps  wildly,  and 
his  eyes  fly  at  the  face  that  follows.  It  is  too  far  to 
see  clearly — but  he  soon  must  know ! 

A  comely  form  emerges  from  the  door,  and  the 
face  looks  up  at  the  morning  sun.  The  woman  walks 
out  and  on,  lithe  grace  in  every  movement.  Then 
the  valley  swims  before  him — for  it  is,  it  is,  the 
woman  he  had  loved.  He  knows  the  dainty  step, 
the  erect  carriage,  the  shapely  frame.  Nearer  still 
she  comes,  skirting  the  base  of  the  hill  he  had 


The  HEATHERY  HILLS  309 

climbed,  still  often  looking  towards  the  sun,  pausing 
now  and  then  to  pluck  a  flower  by  the  way.  Where 
can  she  be  going  ? 

No  bonnet  binds  her  waving  hair,  and  now  he  can 
catch  the  light  of  the  morning  sun  upon  it.  Streaks 
of  gray,  here  and  there,  can  be  seen,  but  they  are  few ; 
the  breeze  rallies  the  loose-flowing  strands  and  they 
make  merry  and  are  glad  together.  He  can  see  the 
pure  bosom,  lightly  robed,  that  swells  with  buoyant 
life.  She  is  nearer  to  him  now,  and  the  face  swims 
in  upon  him  across  the  chasm  of  long  silent  years, 
the  same  pure  face,  still  bright  with  tender  love.  She 
is  now  beside  the  spring— for  thither  was  she  bent — 
and  the  overflowing  pail  is  laid  down  beside  her. 

She  too  glances  into  the  bosom  of  the  water  and 
he  wonders  if  memory  guides  the  wistful  gaze. 
Does  she  too  see  another  face  preserved  against  the 
years  in  the  pure  keeping  of  the  spring?  He  knows 
not — but  he  thinks,  yes,  he  is  sure  he  saw  the  move- 
ment of  the  lips,  and  her  face  is  again  upturned — but 
its  thought  is  far  beyond  the  sun.  He  uncovers  his 
head  and  joins  the  holy  quest. 

She  has  returned  to  the  cottage  and  the  door  is 
closed;  but  Michael  Blake  has  never  moved.  Now 
he  steps  out  from  behind  his  shelter  and  starts 
towards  the  house.  Then  he  stops,  turns  back  and 
begins  to  descend  the  hill  by  the  same  course  as  had 


3io  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

led  him  up.  Yet  once  more  he  turns  and  gazes  long 
at  the  dwelling-place,  starts  towards  it,  stops  again. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  cannot — it  is 
too  light." 

And  he  walked  back  to  the  hamlet ;  he  was  wait- 
ing for  the  tender  dark. 


XXIX 
"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED" 

THE  little  inn  seemed  to  have  no  guests  ex- 
cept the  traveller  from  beyond  the  sea. 
But  no  such  tavern  is  ever  long  deserted,  for 
the  Scotch  nature,  while  it  may  be  dry,  is  ever  loyal. 
Michael  Blake  had  read  but  a  line  or  two  of  the 
Edinburgh  Scotsman,  ten  days  of  age,  when  a  man 
walked  solemnly  in  and  sat  down  beside  him.  His 
face,  his  breath,  and  especially  his  nose,  bore  eloquent 
testimony  to  the  aforesaid  loyalty  of  his  nature.  He 
bade  Mr.  Blake  a  cheerful  good-morning,  glancing  at 
the  same  time  towards  the  counter  beneath  which 
the  liquid  necessities  were  stored. 

"  It's  a  fine  mornin',"  he  began. 

"  A  beautiful  day,"  assented  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Ye'll  no'  live  aboot  these  pairts  ?  "  inquired  the 
other. 

"  No,  I  live  far  from  here." 

"Ye'll  mebbe  be  frae  Ameriky?"  ventured  his 
interrogator,  closing  in  upon  him. 

"  Yes,  I  live  in  Canada,"  was  the  response. 

"  Canady,"  said  the  man.  "  We're  gey  prood  o' 
Canady  the  noo.  I  ken't  a  man  once  wha  went  to 
311 


?i2  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

Canady.  I  had  a  drink  wi'  him  afore  he  went,"  he 
continued,  his  eye  lighting  with  the  dewy  memory, 
"  ye'll  likely  ken  him  ?  Oliver  was  his  name,  Wattie 
Oliver,  a  bow-leggit  wee  body." 

"  I  cannot  say  I  ever  met  with  him,"  replied  Mr. 
Blake.  "  Canada  is  larger  than  you  think  over  here." 

"  Mebbe  so,"  said  the  friendly  stranger,  "  mair  nor 
likely  he's  deid  noo ;  one  o'  thae  red  Indians  micht 
hae  killed  him,  like  eneuch." 

"  Yes,  or  perhaps  a  bear,"  Mr.  Blake  replied  gravely. 

There  was  a  pause.  A  bell  was  ringing,  its  notes 
floating  in  clear  and  sweet  upon  them. 

"  What  bell  is  that  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Blake. 

"  That's  oor  bell  i'  the  parish  kirk  ;  there's  no  ither 
ane." 

"What  is  it  ringing  for?  To-day  is  Thursday." 
asked  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Aye,"  responded  the  other,  "  this  is  the  fast  day. 
Sabbath's  the  sacrament,  ye  ken,  and  they're  maist 
awfu'  strict  aboot  the  fast  day.  They  wadna  work 
that  day,  nae  mair  than  on  the  Sabbath.  They  willna 
even  whustle.  Ae  mornin'  I  met  Davie  Drewry,  an' 
'twas  the  fast  day.  Noo,  of  course,  it  was  juist  an 
or'nary  day  in  Dr.  Cameron's  parish  across  the  burn 
— the  burn  divides  the  twa,  ye  ken.  Weel,  Davie 
was  a  lad  for  whustlin' — he  cudna  leeve  withoot 
whustlin' — but  he  was  gey  religious  too.  Weel,  I 


"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED"      313 

met  Davie  that  mornin',  walkin'  awfu'  fast,  maist  rin- 
nin' — an'  his  face  was  red. 

" '  Whaur  micht  ye  be  gaun,  Davie  ? '  says  I, '  nae- 
body  ailin'  ? 

"  '  Na,  na,'  says  Davie, '  but  it's  the  fast  day,  an'  I 
canna  stand  it  ony  longer.  I'm  gaun  ower  the  burn 
to  hae  a  whustle.'  Wasna  that  fair  redeek'lus  ! " 

"  Quite  ingenious,"  answered  Mr.  Blake.  "  You 
go  to  that  church,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Na,  I  dinna.  I  quit  it  when  they  brocht  the  kist 
o'  whustles  intill't.  I  wadna  stand  it.  There's  nae 
real  Presbyterians  there,  forbye  me  an'  Jock  Camp- 
bell— an'  I'm  sair  feart  aboot  Jock.  I  doot  he's 
weakenin'.  They  tell  me  he  speaks  to  the  minister 
on  the  street,  an'  if  that's  true,  there's  no"  muckle  o' 
the  auld  religion  aboot  Jock,  I'm  fearin'." 

"  Do  you  not  speak  to  the  minister  ?  " 

"  Na,  I  dinna.  There's  naething  o'  the  hypocrite 
aboot  me,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  I  settled  the  minister  fine 
the  last  word  I  spoke  to  him.  He  came  to  see  me  ; 
an'  he  thocht  he  could  wheedle  me  aboot  the  organ 
i'  the  hoose  o'  God. 

"  '  Div  ye  no'  ken/  he  says  to  me, '  aboot  Dauvit, 
the  sweet  singer  o'  Israel — how  he  played  a'  kinds  o' 
instruments  i'  the  Lord's  hoose  ?  '  He  thocht  he  had 
me.  But  I  gied  him  as  guid  as  he  brocht.  What 
think  ye  I  answered  him  ?  " 


ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  I  really  have  no  idea,"  said  Mr.  Blake.  "  What 
was  it  ?  " 

"  '  Div  ye  think,'  says  I,  lookin'  fair  at  him, '  div  ye 
think  I  tak  Dauvit  for  a  paittern  ? ' — and  it  did  for 
him.  '  I'll  hae  to  be  gaein','  says  he,  '  I  hae  a 
funeral.'  «  Aye,'  says  I, '  ye'd  better  hae  a  funeral ' 
— an'  we  haena  spoken  to  ane  anither  since." 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  it  seems  too  bad 
that  the  soul's  interests  should  suffer  because  of  a 
matter  of  that  kind.  Of  course,"  he  continued,  "  I 
don't  say  that  a  man  may  not  be  religious  because  he 
doesn't  go  to  church.  Men  may  scorn  the  bridge 
and  still  get  across  the  river,  but  they  would  have  got 
along  better  by  the  bridge." 

"  I  dinna  ken  aboot  the  brig,"  said  the  other, 
"  that  isna  to  the  point," — for  he  was  not  of  a  meta- 
phorical turn  of  mind — "  but  I've  nae  doot  aboot 
bein'  religious.  A  man  in  my  walk  o'  life,  in  my 
business,  ye  ken,  canna  weel  help  bein'  religious. 
He's  the  same  as  the  Apostle  Paul." 

"  What  ? "  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  are  you  a  tent- 
maker  ?  " 

"  Na,  na,  certainly  not ;  there's  nane  o'  them  now- 
adays. A  man  in  my  callin'  doesna  do  the  same  as 
Paul,  but  he  can  say  the  same,  ye  see.  I  can  say  wi' 
Paul :  '  Death  to  me  is  great  gain ' — I'm  an  under- 
taker, ye  ken." 


"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED"     315 

"  An  undertaker,"  exclaimed  his  listener,  uncon- 
sciously pushing  back  his  chair,  shocked  at  the 
gruesome  humour.  Besides,  the  man  was  looking  at 
him  with  something  like  a  professional  eye,  as  if 
making  an  estimate  of  time,  and  space. 

"  Aye,"  responded  he  of  the  apostolic  claim,  "  I'm 
an  undertaker — but  times  is  dull.  I  was  an  under- 
taker ten  year  in  Lockerby,  but  I  left  there  lang  syne. 
I  had  ae  fine  customer,  the  bailie ;  he  had  eleven  o' 
a  family.  But  I  lost  his  trade.  The  bailie  was  sick 
— an'  my  laddie,  wee  Sandy,  was  aye  plaguin'  me  for 
a  sled.  I  tell't  him  I'd  get  him  ane  when  I  had  mair 
siller.  Weel,  wee  Sandy  was  aye  rinnin"  ower  to  the 
hoose  an'  askin'  aboot  the  bailie.  'Twas  nat'ral 
eneuch ;  the  laddie  meant  nae  harm,  but  he  wanted 
his  sled  afore  the  snaw  was  gone.  Ony  way,  they 
tuk  offense." 

"  Did  he  get  his  sled  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Blake  mechan- 
ically, staring  at  the  man. 

"  Na,  poor  wee  Sandy  never  got  his  sled.  I  had 
juist  ae  ither  customer  ye  miclu  ca'  guid.  He  was 
deein'  o'  consumption,  an'  I  took  guid  care  o'  Sandy's 
sympathy.  There  was  no  askin'  aboot  him,  mind  ye. 
But  there  was  a  mean  man  i'  the  business,  wha  was 
never  meant  to  be  an  undertaker.  His  name  was 
Creighton,  Tom  Creighton,  an'  what  dae  ye  think 
Tom  did,  to  get  his  trade  ?  " 


316  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  rising  to  depart. 

"  Weel,  I'll  tell  ye.  Twa  days  afore  he  died,  Tom 
Creighton  tuk  him  oot  for  a  drive — he  was  awfu'  fair 
to  his  face  an'  he  got  around  him ;  tell't  him  at  the 
gate  that  he  hoped  to  gie  him  anither  drive  later  on. 
Of  course,  he  got  his  trade — he  had  to  gie  him 
his  trade  after  that.  But  I  wadna  stoop  to  sic  like 
tricks  for  nae  man's  trade.  So  I  left  Lockerby  an' 
came  here — I'm  the  only  yin  here." 

Mr.  Blake  was  glad  to  escape  his  garrulous  ac- 
quaintance, and  had  heard  enough  of  his  sombre  an- 
nals. He  walked  out,  and  wandered  far — o'er  moor 
and  fen,  o'er  hill  and  valley,  by  many  an  unforgotteu 
path,  he  wandered — past  his  boyhood's  school,  where 
he  heard  again  the  laughing  shout  that  seemed 
scarcely  to  have  died  away  from  lips  now  silent  long. 

He  loitered  again  by  the  babbling  stream  which 
had  been  the  fishing-ground  of  boyhood,  and  lay  once 
more  on  mossy  beds,  and  bathed  his  face  in  the  same 
friendly  tide.  He  gazed  far  up  into  the  leafy  trees 
and  saw  the  very  nooks  where  boyhood's  form  had' 
rested ;  again  he  saw  the  sun  gleam  on  the  happy 
heads  of  those  who  gambolled  far  beneath. 

He  drank  his  fill  of  the  long  yesterday,  thirsty  still. 
No  familiar  face,  no  voice  of  long  ago,  had  he  seen 
or  heard  ;  and  he  tasted  that  unreasoning  pain  which 
comes  to  the  man  who  knows,  and  is  wounded  by  the 


"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED"    317 

truth,  that  his  native  heath  is  reconciled  to  his  exile, 
careless  of  his  loneliness,  indifferent  to  bid  it  cease. 

When  he  returned  to  the  hospitable  inn,  he  was  as 
one  seeking  rest,  and  finding  none.  He  sat,  reflec- 
tive, while  memory  bathed  the  soul  of  love  with  tears. 
Presently  the  sound  of  voices  floated  out  from  an 
adjoining  room.  He  listened  eagerly,  for  one  was 
evidently  the  voice  of  a  returned  wanderer  like  him- 
self. The  other  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  never 
wandered  from  his  native  spot.  The  home-keeper's 
tongue  had  still  its  mother-Scotch,  but  his  companion 
had  been  cured. 

"  I  know  I  shouldn't  do  it,  Gavin,"  he  heard  the 
latter  say,  "  I'm  really  a  teetotaler  in  Australia. 
Used  to  take  a  drop  or  two  before  I  emigrated ;  but 
I'm  an  elder  now,  and  I  haven't  tasted  for  years. 
However  this  is  a  special  occasion." 

Mr.  Blake  moved  his  chair  to  where  he  could 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  men.  They  were  advanced 
in  years,  both  about  sixty-five,  and  their  heads  were 
gray.  Their  dress  betokened  plainness  of  nature, 
though  that  of  the  Australian  might  indicate  pros- 
perity. Both  would  seem  uncultured,  except  in 
heart. 

"  A  speecial  occasion  !  "  cried  the  one  addressed  as 
Gavin,  "  a  speecial  occasion !  I  should  say  it  is — 
verra  speecial !  It's  twa  an'  forty  years  sin  we  claspit 


318  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

ane  anither's  hand — man,  Andra,  friendship's  sweet, 
an'  God's  guid !  It  wad  be  fair  sinfu'  no'  ta  tak  a 
drop  at  sic  a  time  as  this.  The  minister  himsel'  wad 
taste,  gin  an  auld  schulemate  came  back  after  forty 
year.  Sae  wad  the  Apostle  Paul — the  stomach's  sake 
was  naethin'  compared  wi'  this.  What'll  ye  hae, 
Andra?" 

"  Let  this  be  mine,  Gavin,"  answered  Andrew, 
reaching  for  his  pocketbook.  When  it  appeared,  it 
was  fat  and  full,  and  Gavin  stole  a  wistful  glance ;  for, 
in  Scotland,  colonial  pocketbooks  are  proverbially 
plump.  "  What  shall  it  be  ?  "  he  added. 

"  Whatever  ye  say,  Andra,"  answered  Gavin.  He 
glanced  again  at  the  disappearing  purse  and  heaved 
a  little  sigh.  Patriotism  is  not  good  for  pocket- 
books,  thought  Gavin. 

"  Well,"  said  his  old  schoolmate,  holding  a  sover- 
eign between  his  thumb  and  finger  as  fondly  as 
though  he  had  lived  in  Scotland  all  his  life ;  "  well," 
said  he,  "  I  say  champagne — here,  waiter !  " 

But  Gavin  interrupted :  "  Na,  na,  Andra,  dinna 
get  champagne.  I  took  it  ance  when  the  young 
Duke  came  o'  age,  an'  I  cudna  hae  tell't  I  had  ony- 
thing,  half  an  hour  later.  I  dinna  care  for  ony  o'  thae 
aeryated  waters.  Forbye,  it's  awfu'  dear,  an*  we  can 
hae  far  mair  o'  the  ither,"  he  concluded,  smiling  ten- 
derly at  Andrew. 


"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED"    319 

"The  other"  was  produced;  and  it  justified  the 
trust  reposed  in  it.  Well  it  knew  its  duty,  and  well 
it  played  its  part ;  for  it  burnished  memory  bright, 
stirred  emotion  from  its  hiding  place,  and  even  led 
tears  out  by  long  deserted  paths. 

The  lonely  man  in  the  outer  room  watched,  and 
envied,  and  secretly  absolved  his  brother  elder — the 
latter  was  giving  abundant  proof  of  his  freedom  from 
all  narrow  bigotry.  Like  himself,  his  old  prowess 
had  come  back.  He  was  confidential  now : 

"  She  wouldn't  have  me,  Gavin.  I  told  her  I  was 
rich,  and  that  I  loved  her  ever  since  I  left.  But  she 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Then  I  told  her  I  owned  ten 
thousand  sheep,  and  that  I  dreamed  about  her  every 
night.  But  it  never  moved  her.  I  told  her  I  had 
twenty  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank,  and  her  picture 
next  my  heart  besides — but  she  wouldn't  She  said 
she  was  promised  to  another.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
Janet  Strachan  caring  for  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  Na,"  said  Gavin,  absently,  "  she'll  no'  hae  nocht 
to  dae  wi'  onybody  in  the  way  o'  love — hae  anither, 
Andra.  Dinna  droon  the  miller.  Wad  we  no'  hae 
been  fules  to  tak  champagne  ?  It  wad  hae  been  a' 
dune  by  noo." 

Then  Gavin  stood  erect,  motioning  to  Andrew  to 
do  the  same.  Andrew  rose  ;  one  on  each  side  of  the 
little  table  they  stood,  a  glass  in  the  left  hand  of 


ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

each,  for  they  were  about  to  enact  one  of  Scotland's 
great  scenes.  Far  scattered  are  her  sons,  but  they 
have  the  homing  heart,  and  unforgetting  cronies  wait 
to  welcome  them. 

Gavin's  hand  is  outstretched  and  Andrew's  goes 
forth  to  meet  it.  They  clasp,  the  same  hands  as 
fought  and  played  together  in  the  golden  boyhood 
days. 

"  Andra,"  said  Gavin,  "  I'll  repeat  to  you  the  twa 
best  lines  o'  rhyme  i'  the  language :  An'  div  ye  ken 
hoo  true  they  are  ? 

" '  We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  ' 

— mind  ye  that,  we  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn — an' 
it's  flowin'  yet,  an'  God's  gey  guid — here's  to  ye, 
Andra,"  and  the  men  drank  together,  the  elder  and 
the  unordained,  but  the  past  was  sacred  to  them  both 
— and  childhood's  tears  came  back  to  make  that  past 
complete. 

About  an  hour  later,  Andrew  and  Gavin  passed 
out  through  the  adjoining  room.  They  came  upon 
Mr.  Blake,  whereupon  they  immediately  sat  down, 
neither  being  in  the  mood  for  walking  far.  Both 
greeted  him  with  warmth,  and  invited  him  to  try  for 
himself  the  process  which  they  had  undergone  in  the 
adjoining  room.  Mr.  Blake  gratefully  declined. 


"AND  ALL  BUT  HE  DEPARTED"    321 

"  Ye'll  have  travelled  far  ?  "  said  Gavin,  avoiding 
the  direct  interrogative. 

"  A  long  way,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Come  from  America,  stranger?"  said  Andrew. 

"  Yes,  from  Canada." 

"  Shake,  I'm  a  fellow  colonial — I'm  from  Australia 
— delightful  this,  to  come  back  to  the  old  homestead 
and  meet  a  brother  you  never  saw  before." 

"  Maist  wonderfu',  is't  no'  ?  "  interjected  Gavin — 
then  the  responsibilities  of  a  host  began  to  weigh 
upon  him,  and  he  urged  Mr.  Blake  to  reconsider  his 
decision  about  the  process;  but  Mr.  Blake  was 
firm. 

"  I  ken't  fine  there  was  somebody  frae  Ameriky 
i'  these  pairts,"  said  Gavin.  "  Brownie  Telfer  tell't 
me  there  was  a  saxpence  i'  the  plate  last  Sabbath 
day.  It'll  be  yir  ain  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  claim  it,"  said  Mr. 
Blake.  "  I  only  landed  yesterday." 

"  Ye'll  be  rinnin'  aboot  at  a  graun  rate,"  said 
Gavin,  trying  a  new  vein ;  "  came  ower  a  sicht  seein', 
did  ye  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  not  particularly." 

"  Took  a  little  run  over  on  business,  I  suppose?" 
amended  the  Australian. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Blake. 

"  You  said  you  were  born  in  Scotland;  have  you 


322  ST.   CUrHBERT'S 

any  old  friends  still  about?  Kind  of  lonely  business 
if  you  haven't,"  continued  Andrew. 

"  I  really  cannot  say  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Blake, 
moving  towards  the  door.  "  I'm  a  fish  out  of  its 
accustomed  waters,  even  in  its  old  hunting-ground, 
if  you  will  excuse  mixed  metaphors.  Good-evening 
to  you  both;  I'm  glad  to  have  met  with  you." 

"  Good-evening  to  you,"  cried  the  men. 

The  Canadian  was  gone,  but  the  two  old  cronies 
sat  smoking ;  and  the  twilight,  that  great  gleaner  of 
the  past,  crept  about  them,  bringing  tender  memories 
that  mistrusted  the  garish  day.  In  the  very  midst 
of  them,  Gavin  said : 

"  What  did  the  cratur  mean  when  he  spoke  aboot 
'  mixed  metaphors '  ?  I  never  heard  tell  o'  them 
before." 

"  I'm  not  very  sure,"  answered  Andrew,  cautiously ; 
"  he  must  have  meant  something." 

"  '  Mixed  metaphors,'  "  mused  Gavin, "  an'  the  body 
wadna  tak  onythin' ;  it'll  be  somethin'  they  tak  in 
Ameriky — I'll  ask  Ronnie." 

Now  Ronnie  was  the  bartender ! 


XXX 

LOPE'S  VICTORY  OPER  S/N 

THE  curtain  of  the  night  had  fallen — and 
human  souls  were  on  their  trial ;  for  human 
life  is  then  behind  the  scenes,  and  the  can- 
dour of  its  purity  or  shame  comes  with  the  shelter 
of  the  falling  night.  In  their  noblest  acts,  and  in 
their  basest  deeds,  men  are  aided  by  the  impartial 
dark.  Both  alike  she  screens,  though  with  fickle 
folds,  retreating  when  she  hears  the  first  footfall  of 
the  dawn ;  then  is  every  man's  work  made  manifest 
of  what  sort  it  is — and  the  great  judgment  day  shall 
be  but  relentless  light. 

The  landscape  no  longer  glimmered  on  the  sight 
when  Michael  Blake  set  out  from  the  little  inn,  his 
heart  burning  with  fear.  And  hope  heaped  fuel  on 
the  flame,  for  fear  would  die  if  it  were  not  for  hope. 
He  walked  on  beneath  the  stately  elms,  their  far- 
spread  branches  whispering  as  he  passed,  for  they 
knew  well  his  step,  and  wondered  that  it  hurried  so. 
He  paused  at  the  spring  and  drank  again,  but  his 
thirst  was  still  unquenched. 

He  looked  about  him  at  the  holy  night ;  and  surg- 
ing shame  flooded  neck  and  face  with  crimson.  For 
it  had  been  thus  and  there,  amid  the  sanctities  of  the 

323 


324  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

night,  and  by  their  trysting-place,  that  the  soul's 
great  wound  was  made,  the  blood  oozing  ever  since, 
oozing  still.  Memory,  ermine-robed,  half  enchant- 
ress and  half  avenger,  turned  her  face  full  on  his  as 
he  sat  by  the  spring ;  but  he  turned  his  own  away 
and  started  on,  ever  on. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  Give  me  a  chance,"  he  cried, 
"  give  me  a  chance,"  and  the  darkness  answered  not, 
but  the  whispering  trees  seemed  to  have  the  woman- 
voice. 

He  sees  the  light  now ;  it  is  the  harbour  light,  and 
Michael  Blake  presses  swiftly  on,  his  heart  upbraid- 
ing the  laggard  feet. 

He  stands  now  before  the  door,  but  that  same 
heart,  strangely  wavering,  refuses  to  go  in.  The 
hour  has  struck  for  Michael  Blake,  the  hour  for 
which  his  soul  has  waited  long ;  but  strange  forces 
seek  to  hold  him  back.  The  chiefest  of  these  is  fear; 
he  feels  he  is  hurrying  his  judgment  day,  and  when 
God  would  punish  men,  thinks  he,  He  endows  them 
with  deep  and  burning  love — for  otherwise  He  can- 
not speak  to  them  in  the  eternal  tongue.  The  trem- 
bling man  turns  as  if  to  go  back. 

"  It  is  too  light,"  he  murmured,  "  still  too  light," 
for  the  memory  of  another  night  has  arisen  upon 
him  with  judgment  in  its  wings. 

As  he  moves  noiselessly  from  the  door-step,  he 


LOME'S  VICTORY  OVER  SIN     325 

pauses  by  the  window.  It  is  partly  open,  for  the 
night  is  mild.  A  woman's  figure  moves  before  it,  so 
close  that  he  could  almost  touch — and  his  arms  go 
out  unbidden,  God's  retrievers,  though  they  knew  it 
not.  He  controls  himself,  and  steps  back  a  pace,  for 
she  has  passed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Beside 
an  old  chest  of  drawers  she  kneels,  and  his  heart 
burns  with  eager  passion  as  he  beholds  the  beauty  of 
her  face.  Time,  and  sorrow,  and  God,  have  worked 
together.  Unto  them  all  she  hath  submitted,  and 
they  have  held  to  their  holy  task  till  the  beauty  of 
peace  rewards  their  secret  toil. 

She  is  lifting  something  from  the  drawer  and  the 
light  falls  upon  it.  Another,  and  still  another,  she 
takes  up  in  her  gentle  hands,  smiling  down  on  them 
the  while — they  are  a  child's  outgrown  possessions, 
bits  of  clothing  some,  and  some,  broken  toys,  such  as 
mothers  take  into  their  immortal  keeping  when  chil- 
dren have  spurned  them  from  their  own. 

And  what  is  that,  shining  bright,  held  longer  than 
the  others,  still  smiling  down  upon  it,  her  bosom 
heaving  more  heavily  than  before  ?  He  knows,  he 
knows — it  is  a  little  brooch,  so  little,  but  of  gold, 
given  her  long  ago  in  the  first  glad  sacrifice  of  love. 
She  kisses  it,  and  the  tears  fall  fast  upon  it,  the  lovely 
face  suffused.  It  is  tenderly  restored  to  its  hiding- 
place,  and  the  graceful  form  is  full-bowed  now. 


326  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

He  can  see  the  white  clasped  hands,  and  the  move- 
ment of  the  pure  lips  he  also  sees.  The  words  he 
cannot  catch — for  God  is  close,  and  the  voice  is  low. 
But  the  fragrance  of  prayer  steals  out  to  him,  and 
the  Interpreter,  once  called  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  tells 
him  for  whom  she  prays.  "  Make  me  worthy,  oh, 
God,"  he  cries,  his  heart  melted  within  him.  Again 
he  turns  to  the  door,  and  this  time  he  falters  not,  but 
knocks.  In  a  moment  it  is  opened. 

"  Guid  evenin'  sir,"  said  the  woman's  voice.  "  I 
canna  see  ye  for  the  dark ;  is  it  some  one  I  ken  ? " 
for  wayfarers  often  sought  guidance  at  her  door. 

"  No,  I  fear  you  do  not  know  me,"  the  man  re- 
sponded, "  and  I  crave  your  pardon  for  thus  disturbing 
you.  I  have  travelled  far." 

"  Will  ye  come  in  ?  Or  is  there  something  I  can 
do?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  man ;  "  I  have  travelled 
far  and  am  thirsty.  I  seek  but  a  draught  of  water, 
and  I  shall  go  on  my  way." 

"  I'll  sune  gie  ye  that,"  replied  the  woman's  cheery 
voice,  "  but  what's  here  is  mebbe  raither  warm.  Bide 
ye  here  till  I  rin  doon  to  the  spring." 

The  sweet  face  gleamed  in  the  candle-light  as  she 
turned  within,  picking  up  a  light  plaid  shawl,  so 
strong  is  habit,  which  she  threw  across  her  shoulders. 
The  tall  gracious  form  was  gone  a  moment,  one  dark- 


LOME'S  VICTORY  OVER  SIN    327 

some  moment,  returning  instantly,  a  pitcher  in  her 
hand.  Down  the  steps  she  tripped,  and  out  into  the 
night,  her  white  gown  mingling  with  the  darkness. 

Michael  Blake  stealthily  followed  her,  his  heart  in 
wild  tumult  again.  Her  pace  was  swift  and  he  found 
it  difficult  to  keep  the  path.  But  again  he  saw  the 
flutter  of  white  before  him,  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
Janet,  none  other,  the  same  whom  he  had  held  so 
close  in  other  days.  He  ran  a  little,  panting  as  he 
ran,  his  thirst  a  torment  now — for  the  chase  was  of 
the  soul.  He  is  not  far  from  her. 

"  Janet,"  he  cried. 

She  stopped  and  stood  still,  as  a  deer  stops  when  it 
hears  the  hunter's  voice. 

He  was  closer  now,  and  again  he  cried :  "  Janet, 
oh,  Janet,  wait  for  me." 

Her  pitcher  was  thrown  upon  the  sward  and  she 
came  back  a  little  way,  eye  and  heart  and  bosom 
calling  to  each  other  through  the  storm. 

"  Wha's  callin'  me  ?  "  she  cried,  her  voice  bleating 
like  a  lamb's. 

"  Oh,  Janet,  you  know  who's  calling  you — I  have 
called  you  long,"  and  holy  passion  burned  in  the 
voice  that  spoke,  leaped  from  the  face  that  came 
closer,  still  closer,  to  her  own. 

The  white  figure  swayed  in  the  darkness.  Then 
the  night  glowed  about  her  like  the  noon,  and  the 


328  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

strong  arms  held  her  close,  and  time  and  sorrow  and 
God  all  gave  her  up  ungrudgingly  to  the  bliss  they 
had  planned  together ;    for  in  secret  had  they  be- 
decked her  as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband. 
****** 

It  was  long  after,  how  long  may  not  be  told,  for 
God  would  let  no  angel  mark  the  time ;  but  the  dark 
still  was  brooding,  and  the  trees  whispering  still,  when 
he  said :  "  To-morrow,  Janet — all  the  years  have 
made  us  ready — yet  not  to-morrow,  for  it  is  to-day — 
to-day,  please  God." 

She  came  closer,  closer  to  him  still,  for  hers  had 
been  an  unsheltered  life,  and  the  warmth  was  strangely 
sweet. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  spring,  dear  heart.  Let  us  be 
children  again."  Together  they  went  on,  these  pil- 
grims of  the  night.  While  they  were  going  the  day 
began  to  break.  "  The  night  is  far  spent,"  he  heard 
her  whisper  joyously. 

They  knelt  together,  nor  thought  it  strange — for 
the  youthful  heart  of  love  was  theirs  again ;  and 
they  drank  from  the  unsleeping  spring,  smiling  back 
at  them  as  their  lips  kissed  its  face  together.  The 
same  spring,  the  same  lips — but  purer  both  ! 

And  as  they  stooped,  two  faces  from  the  bosom  of 
the  water  rose  again  to  meet  them.  Each  of  the 
lovers  saw  but  one,  for  each  saw  the  other's  face. 


LOME'S  YICrORY  OfER  SIN    329 

And  lo  !  each  was  the  face  of  happy  youth,  the  light 
of  love  within  its  eyes,  unchanged  by  years,  except 
for  a  graver  innocence.  But  each  saw  the  face  that 
had  looked  up  and  smiled  in  the  years  so  long  gone 
by. 

The  scientist  and  the  philosopher  and  the  deeply- 
learned  in  nature's  laws  will  read  of  this  with  gener- 
ous disdain  ;  but  they  forget  that  this  spring  had  its 
charter  right  from  God,  and  was  fed  from  other  foun- 
tains farther  up  the  hill.  Besides,  optics  is  God's 
own  science — and  this  was  the  morning  light. 


XXXI 


ALL  things  were  in  readiness,  and  the  people 
of  St.  Cuthbert's  were  awaiting  the  Sabbath 
day  with  eager  souls.  For  it  was  the  Sab- 
bath of  the  sacrament,  dispensed  but  twice  a  year, 
according  to  the  custom  of  their  fathers.  I  myself 
looked  forward  to  this  communion  with  a  kindling 
heart,  for  I  knew  its  healing  grace ;  and  this  was  the 
first  dispensation  since  the  shadow  of  that  ordination 
day  had  fallen  on  our  church's  life. 

The  morning  came,  radiant  in  its  robe  of  early 
spring,  and  we  knew  that  a  great  multitude  would 
throng  St.  Cuthbert's.  For  the  aged  and  long  im- 
prisoned, denied  the  regular  services  of  the  kirk, 
would  yet  venture  forth  to  show  the  Lord's  death 
once  again,  some  to  drink  that  cup  no  more  till  they 
should  drink  it  new  in  their  Father's  kingdom. 

Down  the  aisle  would  they  come,  leaning  heavily 
upon  the  staff — but  they  knew  their  accustomed 
places,  the  places  which  were  so  soon  to  know  them 
no  more  forever ;  when  the  service  was  over,  they 
would  retrace  their  steps  to  the  door  of  the  now  de- 
serted church,  and  backward  turning,  would  cast  one 

33° 


LOME'S  TRIUMPH  OYER  ALL      331 

longing,  lingering  look  behind,  then  set  their  peace- 
ful faces  towards  their  home,  the  long  rough  journey 
near  its  end  at  last. 

The  elders,  including  the  four  recently  added  to  their 
number,  met  as  usual,  for  preparatory  prayer.  More 
than  ordinary  tenderness  seemed  to  mark  their  peti- 
tions, for  their  hearts  were  with  the  absent ;  and  the 
senior  elder  thrilled  us  when  he  prayed  for  "  him 
whom  we  had  hoped  to  begin  his  ministry  this  day, 
and  for  Thy  servant  who  was  wont  in  the  days  that 
are  past  to  serve  with  us  before  Thine  altar." 

As  I  walked  into  the  pulpit,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Margaret's  face,  and  never  have  I  seen  sweeter  peace 
than  rested  upon  it.  Her  eyes  reposed  on  the  snowy 
cloth  that  hid  the  emblems  of  a  greater  sacrifice,  and 
she  knew,  as  few  could  know,  the  deep  sacramental 

joy- 
But  hardly  had  my  heart  warmed  at  sight  of  her 
before  sorrow  chilled  its  ardour ;  for  right  opposite 
Margaret's  pew  was  that  of  Michael  Blake — and  its 
emptiness  smote  my  heart  with  pain.  Not  there,  nor 
in  his  rightful  place  among  the  elders,  was  my  old- 
time  friend.  Where,  I  could  not  help  but  wonder, 
where  to-day  is  the  unhappy  man  who  has  cast  his 
ministry  behind  him?  And  bitter  memories  of 
varied  verdicts  flitted  before  me  as  I  went  up  the  pul- 
pit steps. 


332  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

We  had  begun  the  psalm,  and  were  in  the  midst 
of  the  line — never  can  I  forget  it : 

"  As  far  as  east  is  distant  from 
The  west,  so  far  hath  he  " 

when  I  noticed  the  volume  of  song  become  gradually 
less,  and  a  nameless  sense  of  discomfort  possessed  me. 

I  looked  up,  and  could  scarce  restrain  a  cry. 

For  I  saw  the  face  of  Michael  Blake — and  he  was 

walking  down  the  aisle And  that  other,  who  is 

that  ?  For  beside  him  is  a  woman's  comely  form,  her 
sweet  face  lowly  bent  as  though  it  would  be  hidden, 
the  light  of  purity  mingling  with  the  conscious  flame. 

Upon  Mr.  Blake's  face  is  the  humble  chastened 
look  of  one  whom  God  has  touched — in  the  hollow 
of  his  thigh,  mayhap — and  the  limp  may  be  seen  of 
all  men  to  the  last.  But  pride  is  there  too,  the 
solemn  pride  of  one  who  has  wrestled  and  prevailed, 
to  go  henceforth  forever  halting,  but  forever  heaven- 
ward. 

Down  the  aisle,  the  same  aisle  by  which  he  had 
departed  from  us,  they  walked  together,  while  won- 
dering faces  drank  in  the  meaning  of  it  all,  joy 
breaking  forth  upon  them  like  the  sun  when  darken- 
ing clouds  have  gone. 

He  leads  her  to  his  old-time  pew,  and  she  takes  the 
place  that  is  henceforth  to  be  her  own.  The  singing 


LOME'S  TRIUMPH  OVER  ALL    333 

has  stopped,  save  those  silent  strains  with  which  God 
is  well  pleased,  the  same  as  angels  echo  round  the 
throne. 

It  was  hard  for  me  to  proceed  with  the  service,  for 
I  knew  that  God  Himself  had  spoken.  The  sacred 
bush  was  in  flame  before  us  as  in  the  olden  time,  and 
the  place  whereon  we  stood  was  holy  ground.  The 
portion  I  had  chosen  for  the  reading  was  from 
i  Corinthians,  the  apostle's  great  eulogy  on  love ; 
and  my  voice  faltered  as  I  read  some  of  its  wondrous 
words. 

Before  I  had  finished  it,  my  resolve  was  taken.  I 
came  down  from  the  pulpit  and  stood  before  it,  the 
elders  all  about  me. 

"  Let  us  have  our  unbroken  number,"  I  began ; 
"  the  kirk  session  is  constituted,  and  I  call  upon  such 
as  have  been  chosen  to  serve  within  it,  to  come  for- 
ward and  assume  the  holy  office.  After  this,  the 
sacrament  of  forgiving  love  will  be  dispensed." 

I  paused — and  no  one  of  all  the  multitude  seemed 
to  breathe.  But  a  moment  passed,  and  then  a  sound 
broke  the  stillness.  It  was  the  sound  of  moving  feet, 
and  the  elder-elect  arose  and  came  slowly  forward, 
his  head  bowed  as  he  came. 

"  Kneel  down,  Angus,"  I  said,  softly.  He  kneeled, 
and  I  had  almost  begun,  my  hands  outstretched 
above  his  head.  He  raised  his  face  to  mine,  lowered 


334  ST.   CUTHBERT'S 

to  meet  it.  A  moment  told  me  what  he  wished  to 
say. 

"  Stand  up,"  I  whispered. 

When  he  had  risen,  I  said  aloud :  "  Angus  Strachan, 
ordained  already,  I  give  you  the  right  hand  of  fellow- 
ship into  the  eldership  of  St.  Cuthbert's  church.  The 
Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee ;  the  Lord  make  His 
face  to  shine  upon  thee  and  be  gracious  unto  thee ; 
the  Lord  lift  the  light  of  His  countenance  upon  thee 
and  give  thee  peace." 

Again  I  raised  my  voice  as  I  faced  the  worshippers. 

"  I  extend  yet  another  invitation  in  my  Master's 
name.  I  call  upon  any  who  may  be  among  us,  once 
serving  in  the  eldership  of  this  church,  to  come  for- 
ward and  aid  us  to  dispense  the  pledges  of  forgiving 
love  to  other  sinful  men." 

I  waited,  but  there  was  no  response.  One  sat  with 
bowed  head,  his  hand  held  in  the  gentle  keeping  of 
another's.  The  moments  passed,  but  still  silence 
reigned. 

"  Come  awa',  man," — it  was  Ronald  McGregor's 
trembling  voice  from  among  the  elders — "  come  awa'  ; 
it's  the  wounded  hand  that  beckons  ye — we're  a'  here 
o'  the  Saviour's  grace  alane." 

Michael  Blake  moved  slightly,  but  his  head  was 
lower  bowed. 

"  Gang    forrit,  Michael,  gang  forrit  to  the  table 


LOME'S  TRIUMPH  OYER  ALL    335 

He's   been   gey  guid   to  us  baith — an'   oor   Angus 
wants  ye,"  whispered  the  woman  beside  him. 

Then  he  came ;  and,  as  he  walked  to  the  table,  the 
meaning  of  God's  pardoning  love  seemed  borne  in 
upon  us  as  it  had  never  been  before. 

He  had  hardly  taken  his  seat  beside  us  when  we 
heard  a  faint  rustling  sound,  some  one  moving.  I 
turned  my  head,  and  saw  Margaret,  her  face  lovely 
through  its  tears,  slip  into  the  empty  place  and  take 
in  her  own  the  hand  that  had  been  just  released. 
Burning  hot  it  was,  but  she  held  it  tight — and  Janet 
took  her  into  her  heart  forever. 

Then  the  sacred  emblems  were  poured  and  broken 
by  our  sinful  hands,  redeemed  by  love  alone.  The 
elders  bore  them  forth  to  the  waiting  souls,  and  when 
Angus  came  to  his  mother's  place,  great  grace  was 
upon  us  all.  He  had  bent  one  moment,  before  she 
took  the  chalice  in  her  trembling  hand.  One  word 
was  spoken,  only  one,  and  what  it  was  no  one  heard 
— nor  Margaret,  nor  any  one  but  God. 

****** 

Because  of  more  abounding  grace,  and  because  of 
that  alone,  I  cherish  the  trembling  hope  that  I  shall 
yet  hear  the  new  and  holy  song  in  the  blessed  home- 
land yonder.  Yonder,  I  say,  for  on  clear  days  I  have 
seen  the  dim  outline  of  the  hills  beyond  the  river ; 
and  sometimes  in  the  night  I  have  caught  the  glow 


336  ST.    CUTHBERT'S 

of  an  unsetting  sun.  Only  for  a  moment,  it  is  true 
— but  it  was  enough.  My  sight  is  failing,  they  tell 
me,  and  the  light  is  not  so  clear  as  in  the  early  after- 
noon, but  these  yonder  things  are  seen  the  clearest 
in  the  failing  light,  and  by  eyes  that  are  past  their 
best. 

Wherefore,  as  I  set  out  to  say,  I  think  I  shall  be 
welcomed  thither  by  the  pilgrims'  friend,  and  hear  that 
song  of  the  redeemed. 

But  not  till  then  can  I  expect  to  ever  hear  again 
such  melody  as  poured  from  our  hearts  that  morning 
in  St.  Cuthbert's.  As  for  myself,  I  could  scarcely 
sing ;  I  was  so  torn  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow.  Sorrow 
for  what  ?  For  all  my  stubborn  wilfullness,  that  had 
stood  so  long  between  loving  hearts — but  I  did  it  for 
the  best ;  and  God  will  forgive  me,  who  knows  a 
father's  tender  love. 

Therefore  my  lips  were  almost  dumb,  but  my  heart 
joined  in  the  swelling  praise  that  rolled  about  St. 
Cuthbert's  like  a  flood.  And  I  heard  one  voice  clear 
and  sweet  among  all  the  rest ;  it  came  from  the  pew 
where  sat  our  Margaret,  but  it  was  not  Margaret's 
voice : 

"  Long  hath  the  night  of  sorrow  reigned 
The  dawn  shall  bring  us  light  — " 

Thus  reads  our  noble  paraphrase — and  thus  reads  the 


LOME'S  TRIUMPH  Ol^ER  ALL    337 

providence  of  God.  This  it  was  we  sang  that  day ; 
and  this  all  broken  hearts  shall  one  day  sing,  when 
life's  long  twilight  breaks. 

After  the  congregation  had  dispersed,  I  saw 
Margaret  lead  her  mother  to  the  pew.  It  was^beauti- 
ful,  my  wife's  gentle  grace  to  the  timid  stranger,  for 
Margaret  received  of  her  mother  whatever  of  that 

o 

gift  she  hath — and  I  have  always  said  her  mother's  is 
the  rarer  of  the  two.  I  heard  her  bid  her  new-found 
friend  to  the  manse,  and  I  echoed  the  mandate  to  the 
man  beside  me,  his  head  still  bowed  in  prayer. 

The  elders  retired  in  a  body  to  the  vestry,  there  to 
be  dismissed  by  the  benediction,  which  I  pro- 
nounced upon  them,  the  triune  blessing  of  the  triune 
God.  Usually,  they  lingered  for  a  little  subdued  con- 
versation, but  this  day  they  went  out  with  unwonted 
speed,  each  grasping  the  hands  of  the  old  elder  and 
the  new,  and  each  without  a  word. 

In  a  moment  I  saw  their  purpose,  and  went  out 
along  with  them,  leaving  those  twain  together,  the 
father  and  the  son.  We  heard  no  word;  but  we 
knew  the  best  robe,  and  the  ring,  and  the  shoes,  were 
there,  and  that  God  would  dispense  them  in  sacramen- 
tal love. 

It  was  not  long  till  they  came  out  again,  life's  fra- 
grance about  them  as  they  came.  I  had  lingered  in 
the  church. 


338  5T.    CUTHBERT'S 

<f  Just  wait  a  minute,"  I  said  as  they  came  in,  "  I 
left  my  notes  in  the  vestry  and  I  will  be  back  imme- 
diately." 

I  had  hardly  reached  the  room  when  a  light  foot- 
fall was  heard  behind  me.  It  was  my  daughter. 

"  Margaret !  Is  this  you  ?  I  thought  you  had 
gone  home.  Where  is  your  mother  ?  "  Lovely  was 
her  face  and  beautiful  the  light  of  joy  upon  it. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear,  but  came  straight  on,  and 
in  a  moment  her  arms  were  about  my  neck,  and  the 
brave  heart  told  all  its  story  in  tears  of  utter  gladness. 

"  Daughter  mine,"  I  whispered, "  you  will  forgive  " 
— but  the  gentle  hand  stopped  the  words. 

"  Where  is  your  mother  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

"  Gone  to  the  manse — they  went  together,"  and 
the  sun  shone  through  the  rain — "  I  waited  for  you." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  I  said, "  stay  here  a  moment," 
— for  I  knew  the  ways  of  love. 

I  hurried  without,  ?nd  in  the  church  I  found  the 
two  men  lingering  for  me. 

"  Mr.  Blake,  we  will  walk  down  to  the  manse  to- 
gether— Margaret  is  waiting  for  you  in  my  room, 
Angus." 

No  maiden's  fluttering  form  betrays  the  soul  of 
love  as  doth  a  strong  man's  face.  Ah  me !  as  I 
looked  on  Angus's  in  that  moment,  I  knew  to  whom 
my  child  belonged  the  most.  But  the  broken  em- 


LOME'S  TRIUMPH  OYER  ALL    339 

blems  of  Another's  lay  before  me,  and  I  made  the 
lesser  sacrifice  with  joy. 

I  watched  his  eager  step,  nor  did  he  seek  to  control 
its  pace.  Swiftly  he  walked,  and  I  could  not  forbear 
to  follow  with  my  eyes  till  he  stood  before  the  door. 

A  moment  he  paused,  I  know  not  why — then  he 
slowly  entered  and  the  door  was  shut 


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"  Mr.  Duncan  is  deserving  of  much  praise  for  this, 
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as  it  progresses." — N.  T,  E-vening  Post. 

James  Mac  Arthur  >  of  Harper's 
Weekly,  says:  "  I  am  delighted  with 
'  Doctor  Luke.'  So  fine  and  noble 
a  work  deserves  great  success." 

"A  masterpiece  of  sentiment  and  humorous  character- 
ization. Nothing  more  individual,  and  in  its  own  way 
more  powerful,  has  been  done  in  American  fiction.  ... 
The  story  is  a  work  of  art. " — The  Congrcgationalist. 

Joseph  B.  Gilder,  of  The  Critic, 
says:  "  I  look  to  see  it  take  its  place 
promptly  among  the  best  selling 
books  of  the  season." 

*'  It  fulfills  its  promise  of  being  one  of  the  best  stories 
of  the  season.  Mr.  Duncan  evidently  is  destined  to 
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of  his  day.  ...  Doctor  Luke  is  a  magnetic  character, 
and  the  love  story  in  which  he  plays  his  part  is  a  sweet 
and  pleasant  idyl.  .  .  .  The  triumph  of  the  book  is  its 
character  delineation." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Miss  Bacon,  Literary  Editor  of 
The  Booklover's  Library,  says:  "  Of 
all  the  stories  I  have  read  this 
Autumn  there  is  none  that  I  would 
rather  own." 

"  Norman  Duncan's  novel  is  a  great  enterprise,  and 
will  probably  prove  to  be  the  greatest  book  yet  pro- 
duced by  a  native  of  Canada." — Toronto  Globe. 


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Denizens  of  the  Deep 


T" 


By  FRANK  T.   BULLEN 

I  HERE  is  a  new  world  of  life  and 
intelligence  opened  to  our  knowl- 
JL  edge  in  Mr.  Bullen's  stories  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  sea.  He 
finds  the  same  fascinating  interest  in  the 
lives  of  the  dwellers  in  the  deep  as 
Thompson  Seton  found  in  the  lives  of 
the  hunted  ashore,  and  with  the  keenness 
and  vigor  which  characterized  his  famous 
book  "The  Cruise  of  The  Cachalot"  he 
has  made  a  book  which,  being  based  upon 
personal  observation,  buttressed  by 
scientific  facts  and  decorated  by  im- 
agination, is  a  storehouse  of  infor- 
mation —  an  ideal  romance  of  deep  sea 
folk  and,  as  The 
Saturday  Times- 
Review  has  said, 
worth  a  dozen 
novels. 

Not  the  least 
attractive  feature 
of  an  unusually 
attractive  volume 
is  the  series  of 
illustrations  by 
Livingston  Bull 
and  others. 


DENIZENS  OF 
fHE  DEEP 


TEAWK. 
T. 

BULLEN. 


By  MARGARET 
SANGSTER 


Cloth,  each, 


Janet  W^ard 

Eleanor  Lee 

WITHOUT  exaggeration  and 
with  perfectly  consistent  nat- 
uralness Mrs.  Sangster  has 
produced  two  pieces  of  realism  of  a 
most  healthy  sort,  demonstrating  con- 
clusively that  novels  may  be  at  once 
clean  and  wholesome  yet  most  thorough- 
ly alive  and  natural.  As  with  all  her 
work,  Mrs.  Sangster  exhibits  her  splen- 
did skill  and  excellent  taste,  and  succeeds 
in  winning  and  holding  her  readers  in 
these  two  books  which  treat  of  the  life 
of  today. 

"  If  ever  there  was  an  author  whose  personality  shone 
through  her  work,  Mrs.  Margaret  E.  Sangster  is 
that  author.  Mrs.  Sang- 
ster has  written  a  novel 
with  a  moral  purpose. 
That  was  to  be  expected, 
but  it  was  also  to  be  ex, 
pected  that  the  story 
would  be  free  from  hys- 
teria and  intolerance, 
filled  with  gentle  humor, 
sane  common  sense  and 
warm  human  sympathy, 
and  saturated  with  cheer- 
ful optimism.  The  book 
fulfills  the  expectation. " 
— The  Lam  ft. 


JANET 
WARDB 

ftARGARET  E.SANGSTER 


Essays 


Fiction 


By  JAMES  M.  LUDLOW 

INCENTIVES    FOR    LIFE.     Personal 

and  Public.      I2mo,  cloth, 

gilt  top,  $1.25  net. 

"  Dr.  Ludlow  shows  versatility  and  rare  culture  in 
this  book  of  essays.  From  the  first  page  one  is  im- 
pressed with  the  beautifully  clear  style,  the  brilliant 
thought  which  flashes  through  every  sentence,  and  the 
marvelous  storehouse  of  illustration  from  which  the 
author  draws.  The  vital  importance  of  will  power  in 
the  formation  of  character,  and  the  incentives  which 
lie  back  of  it  as  motives  to  action,  are  set  forth  with 
vigor  and  power." — Christian  Observer. 

DEBORAH.  A  Tale  of  the  Times 
of  Judas  Maccabaeus.  By  the 
author  of  "The  Captain  of  the 
Janizaries."  I2mo,  cloth,  illus- 
erated $1.50 

* '  Deborah  is  a  genu- 
ine Jewess,  noble,  bril- 
liant,  loving  and 
lovely."  —  Congrega- 
tionalist. 

"Nothing  in  the 
class  of  fiction  to  which 
'  Deborah '  belongs, 
the  class  of  which 'Ben 
Hur'  and- 'Captain  of 
the  Janizaries'  are  fa- 
miliar examples,  ex- 
ceeds the  early  chapters 
of  this  story  in  vivid- 
ness and  rapidity  of 

action.      The  book  as  __j 

a  whole  Das  vigor  and   \          ,i_a         in  -  r---ir~r -f 

color. "-The  Outlook.     1  JAMES  M.LU  DfcOWJ. 


DEBORAH!. 


Tales  of  the  TP"est  Virile,  true,  tender 

By  RALPH    CONNOR 

THE  SKY  PILOT;    A  Tale  of  the  Foothills. 

1 2.mo,  cloth,  illustrated  ....  Price,  $1.25 
"  Ralph  Connor's  '  Black  Rock '  was  good,  but 
'  The  Sky  Pilot '  is  better.  The  matter  which  he  gives 
us  is  real  life;  virile,  true,  tender,  humorous,  pathetic, 
spiritual,  wholesome.  His  style,  fresh,  crisp  and  terse, 
accords  with  the  Western  life,  which  he  understands. 
Henceforth  the  foothills  of  the  Canadian  Rockies  will 
probably  be  associated  in  many  a  mind  with  the  name  of 
*  Aalph  Connor.'  " — The  Outlook. 

THE   MAN   FROM    GLENGARRY;   A  Tale  of 
the  Ottawa. 
I2mo,  cloth Price,  $i. 50 

*'  As  straight  as  a  pine,  as  sweet  as  a  balsam,  as  sound 
as  a  white  oak." — The  Inter-vie-w. 

GLENGARRY  SCHOOL   DAYS;    A  Tale  of  the 
Indian  Lands. 

I2mo,  cloth Price,  $1.25 

In  pathos  it  reaches  the  high  level  of  "  The  Sky 
Pilot."  In  atmosphere  it  is  "The  Man  from  Glen- 
garry." In  action  it  rivals  "  Black  Rock." 

BLACK  ROCK;  A  Tale  of  the  Selkirks. 

I2mo,  cloth Price,  $1.25 

1 2mo,  cloth,  cheaper  edition       .  .25 

"  'Ralph  Connor'  is  some  man's  nom  de  plume. 
The  world  would  insist  on  knowing  whose.  He  has 
gone  into  the  Northwest  Canadian  mountains  and 
painted  for  us  a  picture  of  life  in  the  mining  camps  of 
surpassing  merit.  With  perfect  wholesomeness,  with 
exquisite  delicacy,  with  entire  fidelity,  with  truest  pathos, 
with  freshest  humor,  he  has  delineated  character,  has 
analyzed  motives  and  emotions,  and  has  portrayed  life. 
Some  of  his  characters  deserve  immortality,  so  foithfully 
are  they  created." — St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

The  world  has  known  and  today  Ralph  Connor 
has  been  accorded  the  signal  honor  of  seeing  his  books, 
by  virtue  of  their  sterling  worth,  attain  a  sale  of  over  one 
a»d  one-half  million  copies. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION, 


A    000136956     0 


